


a skeleton in the closet

by nirvhannahcornell (josiebelladonna)



Series: hamthrax sandwich [2]
Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom, Metallica
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Bloody Hilarious, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Dark Comedy, Diary/Journal, Drama & Romance, Edgeplay, Emotions out the WAZOO, F/M, First Kiss, Framing Story, Gallows Humor, Gentle Kissing, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Journalism, Knives, Letters, Loneliness, Love Triangles, Multi, Murder Mystery, Near Death Experiences, Paranoia, Phone Sex, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Self-Harm, Serial Killers, Supernatural Elements, Threats of Violence, Touring, Violence, horror romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 69
Words: 67,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: "If something was to happen to Joey or James, I'd kill everyone in this room and then myself."14 years following the death of Cliff Burton, Christina Moon has made her way in the world of writing, that is until a new intern seeks curiosity in the memory of a romance between her, James Hetfield, and Joey Belladonna. It's such a secret that not even her mother knew about it while she investigated one of the Pacific Northwest's most notorious serial killers.*written while under quarantine for the coronavirus
Relationships: Charlie Benante/Original Female Character, Cliff Burton/Original Character(s), Frank Bello/Original Female Character, James Hetfield/Original Character(s), Joey Belladonna/Original Female Character, Kirk Hammett/Original Character(s)
Series: hamthrax sandwich [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629580
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. The one where we introduce ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grandma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandma/gifts), [a buncha friends](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=a+buncha+friends).



> Originally titled "The Judas Kiss", consider this bad boy score another one for Anthrax!  
> I decided to put this one here because this is a safe archive and I trust it with my life.  
> By the way, if you wish, all of youses can read my works in bulk with all the glitz and glitter over on my [Wattpad!](https://www.wattpad.com/user/josiebelladonna)
> 
> I got into murder mysteries courtesy of my mom and my grandma so that's why I also dedicated this one to them 💜  
> CAST  
> Christina "Chris" Moon // our heroine, lead singer and songwriter of Black Moon  
> Cecilia "Ceecee" Blackwood // Chris' best friend; virtuoso guitarist and bassist of Black Moon  
> Clara Blackwood // Ceecee's older sister; artist; is totally blind  
> Olivia Moon // Chris' mother; reporter at the Seattle Times  
> Charlotte Kingsley // ghostwriter and the audience surrogate; serving kind of the same role as Johnny Truant in House of Leaves  
> The King of Hearts // serial killer who murders his victims by strangulation and then clean removal of the heart before burying them in a shallow grave; eventual calling card (literally) is the king of hearts
> 
> Anthrax: Joey Belladonna (vox), Scott Ian (rhythm guitarist), Dan "Danny" Spitz (lead guitarist), Frank "Frankie" Bello (bassist), and Charlie Benante (drummer)  
> Metallica: James Hetfield (vox and rhythm guitarist), Kirk Hammett (lead guitarist and attempted vox), Cliff Burton (bassist - later replaced by Jason Newsted), and Lars Ulrich (drummer)  
> Also featuring: Dave Mustaine, Nuclear Assault, Overkill, plus mentions of Slayer and other thrash bands  
> *was originally rated Mature but it's closer to the Teen rating
> 
> And if you're curious!:  
> Christina is a play on my middle name Christine; Moon, after my round face, and also Keith and Daphne  
> Blackwood was also my grandma's family name
> 
>  _Any skeletons, and all your other sins  
>  Any skeletons, in the closet  
> Any skeletons, any misfortunes  
> Any skeletons, hiding in the closet  
> Any skeletons, any skeletons  
> In the closet!_  
> -Anthrax, "A Skeleton in the Closet"

_February, 2000._  
"Christina? Christina Moon?"  
She lifts her head from the papers upon her desk to make view of the new teenage intern of the publishing company. Tendrils of her wavy dishwater blonde hair is dangling down from one side of her head and onto her shoulder. The Scottish influenced Yorkshire accent is unmistakable given it's not the type of accent one hears in Seattle, or in New York for that matter. Christina pushes her cat eye glasses up the bridge of her nose and tucks a lock of her reddish brown hair behind her ear. To think she used to be a full on platinum blonde with dyed fiery red and bright blue streaks at one point.  
"Charlotte, right?" Christina recalls, putting the small silver metal cap back on the other end of the hook shaped ergonomic fountain pen so as to keep the black ink inside of the chamber.  
"Charlotte Kingsley," she replies with a nervous smile upon her face.  
"Come on in. I just have to finish up writing up this letter and then I'll get right onto the basics of shadowing." Christina coaxes her into the tiny white walled office with the thick black wooden beams nestled in each of the corners: tucked in one corner is a row of succulents and an Easter cactus that's ready to bloom in time. Charlotte enters the room, clothed in a white silk button up blouse and a stark black pencil skirt down to her knees, and cradling a small stack of papers up close to her chest. She shudders at the sight of the big off-white block of a computer monitor right next to Christina's left elbow.  
"Still reeling from the 2000 switch, are we?" She flashes her a toothy grin as she removes the cap off of the pen once again.  
"I believe we all are," Charlotte confesses with an apprehensive expression upon her face. "I must confess it was a little intense going into the end of December."  
"Oh, definitely. But it's only been a month and aside from a little glitch on our part, still no computers malfunctioned and no nukes went off. I think it was all unwarranted hysteria if you ask me." Christina signs her name at the bottom of the page and puts the cap back on. She picks up the paper with her index fingers and her thumbs, the former of which is still somewhat calloused from the days she learned guitar. Careful to keep it neat, she folds the paper into thirds and leans back behind her for a fresh envelope. She neatly slips the letter inside of the envelope, and folds the flap over the top, and reaches behind her a second time for a minute stripe of tape. She seals the envelope closed and sets it down on the top of her desk with the smooth face pointed up to her.  
"So—"  
"Is that—James Hetfield?" Charlotte asks out of the blue. Christina lifts her gaze to the young lady gesturing to the framed photograph on the corner of her desk.  
"It is," Christina replies with a thoughtful smile and a removal of her glasses. "Back when his hair was so long and luxurious."  
"You knew him?" Charlotte shows it to her, that snapshot in time of her nestled right up next to him.  
"I did. I still kind of do, too, if you must ask."  
"Who's the—black haired gentleman next to you?"  
"That's Joey Belladonna. Have you heard of Anthrax?"  
"Mmm, aside from the rather ghastly disease, not really. I know Metallica and Megadeth in terms of heavy metal, but that's about it."  
"They're in the same grouping as those two bands. Heavy metal. I met Joey in probably the most rockstar circumstances about—fourteen years ago. Talk about a sweetie."  
She returns her glasses to her face and raises her pen again, only to find Charlotte examining the photograph once more. She's about to write something when the sight of the intern before her brings her to a stop. She then folds her arms over the top of the desk.  
"It's quite the story, what went down between me, James, and Joey back in the eighties. It was cool 'cause we were all the new kids: James from Downey, down in California; Joey, the upstate New York boy; and me, the little writer chick from Reno, Nevada. We cobbled the whole thing here in Seattle the first time around and then it got... interesting. I was always wanting to fly out to California or over to New York."  
"Do you mind?" Charlotte runs the tip of her tongue along the edge of her top row of teeth. Christina notices the glimmer in her eye once again.  
"Should I tell you the story?" she offers to her in a low voice. "It's a little complicated—a little naughty, too—like there are some kind of unspeakable aspects to it that no one even knows about, not even my mom, Olivia Moon, and she's one of the most thorough and prolific of reporters here in Seattle. I mean, she did that whole big story on the King of Hearts, for God's sake..."  
"We could meet up after work," Charlotte suggests, setting the photograph back down on the desk. "Like we can talk about it that way."  
Christina squints at her with intent. Interesting and good suggestion, but there's something else here. Without a further word, she lifts off from the desk so as to lean over to her side. Leaning right next to the tower of the computer is a trio of purple folders, each of them containing folded papers: nestled in between the third folder and the side of the desk is a thin rectangular black box held closed by a golden string. She sets the folders and the box down on the desk right next to the computer and before Charlotte.  
"I don't really feel comfortable talking about it, to be honest," Christina confesses. "It's not that I'm at all ashamed of it or had any of the fun I had with those two men and each of their bands, for that matter. It's just—you know, there's a lot of twisting and contorting to it that makes me wonder what the hell was going through my mind then. Like I should've been a little bit more decisive. I think the whole thing Mom was doing then only added to the whole vibe to the venture, so... I can't really blame myself for all of it."  
"If you must," Charlotte offers, "then I shall write it all down for you so you don't have to."  
Christina cocks her head to the side in pensiveness. Maybe this new intern might be just what she needed. She does have that subtle perkiness to her after all, and that serious look in her eye. She knows that look anywhere: the one of hunger and passion for what she does, even here on day one of her new job.  
"Okay," she decides, putting a hand on the black box. "For your first assignment under my direction, you are to assemble together my adventure with Metallica and Anthrax. A slice in the life of the twenty-year-old Christina Moon back in the mid-eighties. Inside of this box is my old diary. I didn't want to throw it out because I just don't feel right throwing out such a nice little book. Inside of these folders are all of the letters I wrote to James and also the ones I wrote to Joey. Now, Charlotte, I'm trusting you on this, especially with my diary because that was—and still is—very precious to me."  
"Consider me on the job," Charlotte replies with a grin and a wink. She picks up the folders and the box and, careful not to drop them, she holds them up against her chest before picking up the initial small stack again and pressing them against her chest.  
"Do you know where your office is?" Christina asks her, picking up her pen again.  
"Right next door."  
"Oh, perfect! So if you any questions or—if you want me—to clarify something, you can just swing by here and I'll do it as best as I can. Now have at it, little one. And by the way—call me Chris. Only when we're in meetings or engaging in the most important of affairs can you call me Christina, or—worse, Miss Moon."  
Charlotte shows her a reassuring smile before eagerly heading out of the office to her brand new one right next door. Once she has left, Christina picks up the letter laying atop of the desk right before her and holds it up to her face. The front side remains blank but she feels those butterflies whirring up inside of her stomach again. The thought of him still nudges at her, even after she found her footing and became one of the most formidable journalists in Seattle. She is the proud daughter of Olivia Moon, the woman who wrote that huge scoop about the most notorious and vile of serial killers in Seattle and brought justice to the victims' families. If only the two of them stayed together, she would've taken the path of success with him.  
But all she can do at the moment is kiss the front of the envelope. She can still feel him on her fingertips, and taste him upon the skin on her lips. If only she could make it work between the two of them back then...  
"Soon, my love," she whispers into the paper. "Soon." She turns it over in order to kiss the back of the letter. Now it's time to send it off.  
Meanwhile, Charlotte stumbles into her office, her arms full and her bra strap sliding down the curvature of her shoulder on the inside of her shirt, but she can only do one thing at a time. She shuts the door with her right foot and nearly falls onto her side on the floor. Quickly regaining her balance, she places the stack cradled in her arms onto the desktop and then lifts her head from the pile. She runs her fingers through her blonde hair and reaches under her shirt for the bra strap.  
She rounds the side of the desk to her chair and takes a seat. She slides the box off of the pile first so as to have a better look at the folders containing the letters.  
Christina said it was quite long and convoluted, especially with the thrilling scoop of the King of Hearts looming in the background. But if she was to start somewhere, it would have to be the diary. She unties the bow from atop the lid and takes it off the box. Inside of the box is a black hard covered book with a gilded spine and linings of silver along the edge of the front cover. It's a beautiful journal and one that looks as though Christina had never opened it.  
Surely, this can't be too complicated. Just read and put it together from start to finish. Charlotte fetches up a sigh and opens the book to the first page.  
On the brick red interior cover, Christina had written in black and blue ink:

 **Property of Christina Agatha Moon: the new girl from northern Nevada and in need of a place for her thoughts. If lost, please return to the little beach style house in Burien, Washington, the one with the Easter cactus and the aloe plant on the front step**.

"Okay," she says under her breath, feeling her hand shake. "I've got this. I've got this for you, Chris."


	2. The one with the black leather boots in summertime

_June 25, 1986_.

I can never know how to begin these things so I'm going to improvise this whole thing from the get-go. I have improvised things like this before: writing is in my veins, in my soul, in every inch of myself.

My name is Christina Moon, I am nineteen years old—I'll be turning twenty in five days. I never wanted anything more than to close out my teen years on a high note, and it looks as though it will. I also go by Chris and since I was a little kid, I've gone by Luna from my last name and the fact I'm a Cancer.

I was born in Reno, Nevada to Olivia and Vincent Moon, a headstrong journalist and a wandering businessman respectively.

Standard disclaimer: I have a good relationship with my dad, like I'll get a ring from him on my birthday or Christmas time, and sometimes I'll go down to Reno to visit him for Thanksgiving, but my mom and I haven't lived with him since I was in kindergarten. My mom, who’s a born and raised New Yorker and thus lives and abides by the whole mantra of “I don’t need no man”, divorced him right after my fifth birthday and we moved up to Seattle for a new life. It made sense given I would start kindergarten that September: a brand new chapter in mine and my mom's lives. Regardless, that was still the first time I ever felt fully alone and without a friend to speak to.

Mom found a job as a journalist at the local newspaper shortly after we had moved, and she was the only person I had a means of communication with back then: even from a young age, I found myself spending a lot of time going solo. At some point I started taking after her, picking up a pen and applying it to paper. Let's just say I've kept a journal for as long as I can remember.

But on the other hand, I met my best friend Cecilia on the first day of school and we've kept at it all throughout school. Her name's Cecilia, but I've always called her Ceecee from day one. We were both lanky kids with our skinny limbs and narrow faces: I was the platinum blonde one where she was the fiery redhead. We did all the stuff that little girls do, from play dates to messing around with each other's hair: I always wanted to curl her straight maple red hair where she always teased me about taking some locks of mine and dyeing them outrageous colors like hot neon pink. I don’t remember the context, but I do in fact recall making a promise to her that if we formed a band together in the future, I would color my hair for her.

She seemed intent on my dyeing my hair because I still remember the day she told me in the second grade that she wanted to learn guitar and she actually did it. I walked home with her to see it for myself: it was this beautiful little dark wooden acoustic guitar with a nice gloss to the body and a black neck: the strings were silvery and shiny, like the moon.

There was a pair of lacy lilies engraved near the bridge, and I immediately got a hankering to start a band with her. Since we were both latchkey kids, whenever I went over to her house, she and I traded off playing around with it. We never learned any one song per se, just more along the lines of jamming. She became the maestro where I leveled off to focus more on my writing, par in thanks to her mom suggesting she go into music theory when we grew old enough. Within time, Ceecee dove into classical music and jazz, and I into writing words down in a journal.

But I think that by the time we left second grade and ventured into that summer, I wanted to learn music on my part. I searched around for a guitar of my own, one that was to be exactly like hers, with the engraved lilies and everything.

It wasn't until the end of August, about three weeks before the first day of school, when Ceecee's older sister Clara, with her black shades hiding her dark visionless eyes from the damage of the sun, led me over to a ramshackle looking box to the curb right outside of their house. I always knew what she lacked in her eyes beginning from a young age she made up in her other senses.   
She told me she found it upon hearing it make a noise that resembled to reverberations, the ones from the body of a guitar, while she was walking along with her cane. She had tapped on the box with her cane for me and I knew what she was talking about. I opened up the lid to reveal a small fiery red acoustic guitar with little black flowers carved along the edge of the body. The strings were golden, and I knew it would serve to be the perfect contrast to Ceecee's guitar. I thanked Clara and, after helping her back into the house, I took it home with me.

I could never figure out how she did it: every day after school, she always jammed on it like clockwork, playing with her fingers along to Clara's Coltrane records and some Handel. On the other hand, I fiddled around with mine and made up a few riffs, none of which sounded good enough. I always gravitated back to my journal with words and phrases, in hopes to write a song. However, I figured maybe this could be the way we would operate in the future: I could give the lyrics where she could think of the music.

Mind, we were in elementary school when all of this was happening. It felt as though we were living our destiny, two best friends going into the great wide unknown with the tools of our trade.

But I insisted on playing the guitar. Clara found the box and I was always so adamant on playing on Ceecee's prior to that summer day.

There is in fact some good news, though: the first song I learned on my guitar was “Cracked Actor” from David Bowie and it only took me two weeks despite it being so easy to play. Ceecee joked to me that I could be the rhythm guitarist in our band, but I knew she was right. I just never reached the virtuoso level that she did by the time we reached high school and she officially decided on music theory as her career. Everyone always called her the girl who could give Frank Zappa a run for his money; I was always seen as the next Jim Morrison even though I'm a far cry from a poet.

We knew we were onto something great when she called me up one day and suggested we definitely go through with the whole band idea, which meant I had to dye my hair given I lost the bet. As she helped me color a few locks of my hair hot pink and neon blue, we thought of names together. I threw out the name Black Moon, as a hybrid of our last names Blackwood and Moon. She liked it because it sounded sinister like Black Sabbath, and yet girly and badass at the same time. Since it was just the two of us, we considered being the next Simon and Garfunkel, or Heart, given Clara didn't play an instrument but did make art via her sense of touch. We promised her that if we were ever signed a deal with a label, we wanted her to make the cover art for our album.

Sometime in our sophomore year, she picked up a bass. Now we could officially be a duo and perform if we wanted. We both polished up on how gear and things like that works, all the boring, stark mumbo-jumbo that no one wants to read about: we read about that and voraciously studied it. We were that hungry for success, which meant we would do anything, even if it included vowing to do the homework after doing our homework.

We both left our high school for a magnate school given our very specific career choices, and it almost became like obsessions with us. She was neck deep in the world of classical music and early jazz, and I was wanting to write every hour of the day. We both graduated last year in the eighth and ninth respective places overall: there was only a fifth of a grade point average separating me from our valedictorian. But it didn't matter at that point because we were en route to being the biggest girl duo to come out of Seattle, the next Heart.

But much to our chagrin, no one wanted to sign us. We were relegated to playing in my mom's garage when she wasn't home or in the Blackwood's garage for Clara. Our biggest hit was a cover of Heart's "Straight On" and that was because Ceecee always killed the solo, not because either of us were about to be the next Ann Wilson.

Rather recently, Clara suggested that we go to a concert, a big one at that, too, that is if we wanted an idea as to how to show off to a greater audience. She told us that even though we sounded good and tough and feminine, we didn't have that power. But she swore to us that she didn't want us to blame it on the fact we lacked a drummer. Neither of us had any desire to see Aerosmith or Whitesnake over in Spokane, and it was too far of a drive for either of us no matter who was playing, and all of the little punk shows around town always seemed to happen after the fact. To top it off, we live in Seattle: nobody comes here. It’s one thing if we were living in New York City where my mom’s from, but here, we're kind of our own thing. So it's rare to hear about a big North American tour stopping up here, much less the tour of anyone we're a fan of.

But I think it was when I walked to the market to pick up some things when I caught a glimpse of a flyer on a telephone pole. It was solid black and it advertised Ozzy Osbourne and three bands playing over at the Coliseum: Metallica, Anthrax, and Metal Church, and it was set to play tonight, one night only and add to this, it was an all ages show. I told Ceecee about it because we listen to Sabbath and Ozzy; Clara volunteered to come with us given she was older and handicapped, and later explained that by saying the ushers would treat us nice.

It wasn't just the ushers who treated us nice, but the fans waiting in line outside in the warm early summer Seattle sun, as well. They all seemed to appreciate the fact that Clara, despite being totally blind, wanted to take her kid sister and her best friend to a heavy metal show. There was this one guy waiting outside of the venue who was so nice to us and to Clara in particular.

He wore these big black boots with chains down the sides, big black boots despite it being the summer time. He looked like a rock n' roller with his long kinky curly black hair draped over his slim shoulders and mirrored sunglasses upon his face: he was very thin, skinny in fact, but had these cute little chubby cheekbones when he smiled at us. When he stepped in the shade, he removed his sunglasses and showed us these big brown eyes, as brown as the earth. When the sun shone upon his head, it was like looking on at a wise Indian chief at a sun ceremony.

It wasn't until we learned the show was canceled when we found out this man, Joey, was in fact the lead singer of Anthrax and the five of them got word that one of their fans who awaited outside was totally blind. Their guitarist Scott Ian attempted to head on out but he had to tend to something real quick with their manager. We didn't get the chance to meet them but Joey did vow to us that they would hang around in Seattle for a couple of days, especially once Ceecee told him that she and I were a band. It was almost like a fairy tale: three days ago, Ceecee and I were aching for an audience and now we had a looking in view with Anthrax, this quintet, coincidentally from New York that we only just heard of.

So here I am, writing about this experience and wondering if I'm dreaming. I'll write more after our lunch with Joey and the boys tomorrow, but now, sleep.


	3. The one with the nice pants

_June 26, 1986_.  
The day began with Ceecee, Clara, and I heading out together to meet up with Anthrax over in Ballard. We were about to head on out the door to have lunch with them when Mom suggested Ceecee and I take the long way there.  
There was a rather grisly murder in our neighborhood just last night, mere hours after we met Joey outside of the venue. The woman who died was apparently going out with this guy and he ended up strangling her to death and taking out her heart. All I know is she’s described as blonde, blonde like me, and was a painter. She was found buried in their backyard this morning by the cops, while the inside walls of the house were painted by her blood from her heart, by use of her paintbrushes. Moroever, it was literally not even a block from Clara and Ceecee's house.  
Thus, Mom told us they were still investigating the murder but keep our eye out for anything suspicious, especially me because I fit the description.

( _Charlotte's note: just imagine living so close to such a horrific incident, whether you fit the description or not. Makes me shudder_.)

Ceecee and I agreed to wait a little bit before we took Clara with us on the drive over to Ballard to join these five guys for lunch.  
But we get there to the cafe, about three doors down from the Scandinavian Heritage Museum, and sitting there waiting for us outside of the place is Joey, still with his long curly tendrils down over his shoulder even though it was particularly warm today, in a loose black shirt with no sleeves and a hem that's a little too high off of his belt, but I don't think Ceecee and I minded that much. I think he's thin enough to pull it off.  
We also got to meet the founder of Anthrax, Scott and his two inch thick eyebrows and luxurious black hair down past his shoulders; plus the guitarist Danny, who was so sweet to us; and the bassist and the drummer Frank and Charlie in that respective order, both of whom teased us around like a couple of playboys. I knew they meant well, though.  
The five of them were especially kind to Clara as she took a seat at the counter with her cane still in hand, but they wanted to know more about Ceecee and myself.  
Before either of us could introduce ourselves as Black Moon, the sixth member of their party showed up.  
He was this tall, lanky man with long streaky waves of blond and the first beginnings of a mustache over his upper lip. He was in fact tall, much taller than Joey, and far more fair. The one thing I recall about his clothes was that he wore these clean, crisp dark denim jeans that seemed to augment every inch of his legs. He introduced himself as James, and I initially had a feeling he was from the West Coast given he lacks that big bold heart of New York City accent that the four other guys in Anthrax have with them. He took a seat to the right of me while Joey sat on my left.  
In fact, each of them are striking given this is the '80s and nowhere can I turn without finding spandex on all the store shelves and the coat hangers. They all had on black and denim and wore their hair down over their shoulders. James told me they're all kind of considered as the outsiders of the world and everyone thinks they're punks, from the sight of their long hair. That coaxed a laugh out of Ceecee in particular. Quite the big bold laugh after learning about what happened not too far from their house.  
Joey didn't talk much the whole lunch hour, but I managed to scrounge a couple of words out of him at one point when James stood to his feet to use the men's room which meant it was just me and him for a few moments. Of all these outsiders here, he's probably the most like it with the fact he's from way the hell upstate back in New York and his roots are more in hard rock compared to Scott, Danny, Frankie, and Charlie's love of punk and classic heavy metal. He got into singing with the Beatles and even into drumming by merely reading the Sears catalog while at his grandparents' house. I told him Ceecee and I have a profound love of all the music he likes, and I found guitar playing just kind of on accident.  
And I remember he gave this quaint little Mona Lisa type smile, like I had touched him in some way there.  
James later told me about himself in how music pretty much saved his life after his home life fell apart almost seven years ago. He added that the other alternative of not playing guitar and writing lyrics for his band, which he and his drummer Lars called Metallica, was to walk the streets down in L.A., like a lost child looking for his mother.  
These two men seem like such polar opposites of each other, especially when Joey told me he's a hockey player while James has his way around guns. I'm not too particular about hunting and hockey, I can take or leave both, to be frank.  
But they both get this particular twinkle in their eye when Ceecee brings up our work with music, and Clara with her love of art, even with her lacking in sight. The whole experience was such that after lunch, which ended up taking place over the course of almost three hours, I looked over at Danny and asked him if he felt full at all, and he told me he didn't.  
We actually ate a lot of food between the nine of us, and yet mine, Ceecee, and Clara's connecting with them took our attention away from it all. And for me, it was sitting between Joey and James and trying to figure them both out that took my attention away from the food that it almost seemed frivolous at one point. I have a good feeling about both of these boys, even with such a horrible crime having committed not too far from my friends' house. Scott suggested we meet again in a couple of days so we can exchange phone numbers.   
After hearing that and the experience we've been on so far, I'm in fact heading off to bed with a good feeling. Things might be looking up for Ceecee and me now.  
It’s such that I’ve written lyrics to a song.   
After we returned home, I’ve been throwing out limericks into the open, and now I’ve had the opportunity to put some of them down on paper.  
At first, I’ll admit that I wish I could make some of these rhyme, but now that it’s getting late, I have to say that I don't in fact care if any of these lines rhyme or make any sense whatsoever. I’ve found out years ago when I started playing around with poetry and whatnot, that poems of any kind, be they songs or whatever else, need not rhyme. Here’s a taste:

" _Wondering souls on green grass/life is what you make it as you breathe it out one last time. Stay alive under the cold sun/before the blood spills on the concrete far away_." 

And then I’ll keep going from there in the morning.


	4. The one with new pens and phone numbers

_June 29, 1986_.

Yesterday, I shared the lyrics I had written with Ceecee, who looked at them with this look of excitement on her face as if I had just penned the next "Blackbird". She took the lyrics and began strumming her guitar, and within time, she invented a riff for this song, this new untitled song, solely driven by her playing. I figured she's the maestro for this song whereas I'm basically just following her along. After a couple of takes, we decided that I sing on the second bar leading in.

We practiced it all day in her bedroom until we knew the words and music by heart. It took me a while to realize I had penned the song after the two of us meeting and then living near a place where that murder went down. It was particularly obvious in the chorus:

" _don't wash it away, don't wish it away.  
Two shadows wondering in the dark,  
with the words unspoken and the cold of death.  
We are alive in the flesh light_."

Since it was just us there at her house, we decided we would save this song for a rainy day, whenever that may be in the future.

Today, meanwhile was a normal day wherein Ceecee, Clara, and I met up with the boys again, all of them, at about eleven-thirty in the morning. The paranoia was hanging over us, the heavy feeling as we drove on past the house, the site of the murder scene. But the feeling soon waned away once we passed through the neighborhood and made our way out of Burien and into town.

This time around, we were outside of the venue that Metallica was supposed to play at the other day, but as it turned out, the show had been postponed for about a week. We met up at the Coliseum, a tall ivory white building of cinder block and pale brick lined with pitch black trimming, done such that it resembled an old fashioned casino. Metallica's drummer Lars, this cute short boy with long shaggy, disheveled hair and bright green eyes, and an odd accent that I knew from the get-go wasn't American, met up with us there at will call from all the way down the far side of the building. He invited us back there, mainly to get us out of the crowd, but partially to find the guys all congregated in the alleyway there behind the venue. There's a low brick wall there holding back a row of little ornamental cherry blossom trees, where they all congregated at for about half an hour, and I knew why because the trees cast enough shade since, at that point, the sun rose higher into the sky and everything began to warm up.

Lars assured the three of us that they hadn't been waiting for us for very long, given the main reason for them showing up was to find out details on the show. Apparently the delay was par in thanks to the promoters scrambling to find more money to promote the whole date with them and Ozzy.

Today's the eve of my birthday and when I told that to Joey and James, the reactions I got from both men varied from each other so much that I can't hardly seem to put my head around it.

Joey removed his mirrored sunglasses and coaxed me in closer to his body for a hug. I have given Ceecee plenty of hugs, and my parents both plenty of hugs, but he had to have been the best, given he held me so close. He rested his hand on the back of my head to hold me right up against his chest. His long spidery fingers entwined their way through my hair; and even though his body is so slim and slender in its build, he felt strangely silky, a feeling of which I can only describe as something akin to holding a teddy bear.

I gazed up at him and the late morning sun bathing over the back of his head, like he was wearing a crown, like an Indian prince. He showed me that little Mona Lisa smile once again and said, "happy birthday" in that suave voice laced with that Italian influenced upstate New York accent.

But on the other hand, James seemed less than enthusiastic about it. He sat there on the low brick wall with a thoughtful look upon his already stern face, and his bright eyes shaded from the sun by the prominence of his brow, and his hands resting upon his knees. A man of few words, but he could've at least given me a smile or blew me a kiss like what Metallica's guitarist Kirk did for me. He was such a far cry from what I witnessed the couple of days before at the restaurant. So closed off now, a stretch of unknown territory.

I asked Clara about it earlier after we came home and she told me it could've been from the fact he and I opened up to each other too soon, and he was retracting a bit. But there's something about him, like how there's something about Joey. Something that's calling me back to him anyway.

( _Charlotte's note: perhaps it could be left over from the fact that a rather brutal murder happened awfully close by and Chris is wanting to uncover some emotions? I know I would_.)

Either way, the bunch of us chatted for a bit there outside of the venue. Next to James, Metallica are these four guys from San Francisco, originally Los Angeles but relocated to be closer to their bassist Cliff. The exception was Lars, whom I found out hailed all the way from Denmark. Meanwhile, Anthrax kept up their friendly New Yorker demeanor toward the three of us. Just a bunch of guys, a bunch of guys willing to chat with three girls who happened to stumble upon their music by accident and then were whisked into their little circle all because of Clara.

At around three o'clock, or around the time in which they all had to file inside for sound check, Scott declared we do the honors before the show and exchange numbers with each other. Clara, who explained to Anthrax's bassist and drummer Frank and Charlie how she made her art in that she uses nothing more than the feeling of her hands and arms over paper, had brought a brand new pen in which she would do some abstract work with later this summer, so the nine of them were careful to use it on the pad of paper Frankie had taken out of his pocket.

He was all too kind towards Clara, saying she could shatter some glass ceilings with her art given she lacked sight.  
I could see it between the two of them, just the way he was gentle in guiding her closer to him and Charlie, and the way he let her caress his lanky arms, his shoulders, and his toned chest.

"I can tell you're handsome," she remarked, showing him a grin from behind her pitch-dark shades. "Handsome in a big way."

Joey then made a joke about starting a cover band of his own if and when he got the chance and calling it Chief Big Way, which got a laugh out of both her and Ceecee.

Ceecee, meanwhile, took attention to Kirk and Cliff, the former this slender dark skinned guy, about the same height as Joey, and with a lot more rich black curls about the crown of his head. Where Joey's toned, slender, and solemn, Kirk has a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a little baby face that makes me think of high school age. Cliff, on the other hand, towers over us with long straight locks of light brown hair and kind of a deep, serious look in his eye. Ceecee describes him as the tower of power.

And then there's Danny of Anthrax and Lars of Metallica, two guys who helped out the three of us with their intelligence and their quick wit. They all seemed to twin each other, these nine men hailing from opposite ends of the country--and in Lars' case, the other side of the world. And yet, they all had one thing in mind and that was to treat the three of us well.

After Mom had once again advised the three of us to stay safe, we were willing to take any chance whatsoever to connect with these men. Even after we headed into the venue to oversee sound check, one of the Coliseum's stagehands strolled on over to us to tell us that the show had been cancelled given the lack of money to handle all of the dirty work, we still walked out of there with the golden tickets, their numbers, to give them a ring whenever either of us had a moment.

But I think what's interesting is even after the bunch of us were told that the show was cancelled, Lars suggested Ceecee and I give a show.

The two of us. Play a show for these guys as Black Moon in the midst of the hot summer day.

Granted, we had to hustle on back home to fetch our guitars, but we did it. And we returned with the cases on our backs to find they had congregated behind the venue with a couple of the stagehands close by as security guards. I should mention Ozzy's dressing room was right upstairs, right up above our heads.

But Ceecee and I set up there on the sidewalk, under the rich golden light of this summer day with nothing more than our acoustic guitars slung over our shoulders. No fancy amps, no microphones, nothing fancy to help us out. Just the two of us while Clara behaved as usher using her cane.

I served the duty as singer as we covered Heart.

I'll admit that it was a bit nerve-racking since up to that point, Clara had acted as our audience. But there was a point in which I gazed on right at Joey, right into his deep brown eyes and the pensive look on his face. At one point, he gazed on at me as if he had been touched by the sound of my voice. And I hadn't heard him sing before, either.

At another point, I glanced over at James, who still had the same stoic look upon his face. But I could see it in his eye. I was tapping into the minds of these two men by merely singing and doing a halfhearted way of playing guitar. Ceecee is the guitar player: I'm just the girl filling in for her. The highlight was that Scott described us as "Paul Simon and Joan Jett had a love child together."

Soon, as the sun began to sink behind the brick building next door, we decided today was the rainy day. We played the song I had penned two nights ago, one that we hadn't given a name yet. But when I said this was a song that I had wrote, and Danny asked me what it was called, Ceecee filled in, declaring that it's coincidentally called "Black Moon."

She led the way and then I followed suit. I started singing on the second bar, just how we practiced it.

Joey's face softened even more. James even tilted his head to the side as if trying to figure us out.

Soon they figured out the chorus, and Frank and Charlie began chanting "don't wish it away" with me. Kirk and Lars followed suit. Soon we were all singing "don't wish it away" together like a whole gaggle of friends doing karaoke. And at that point, I had completely forgotten the show was cancelled, especially once Joey showed me that Mona Lisa smile again.

And this happened all because I wrote a song about my best friends living near a murder scene... and yet none of them knew about it.


	5. The one with cancelled tour dates and a serial killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“I know who you are,  
>  I know what they call you, girl.  
> Never put you down,  
> I'm just like you baby, I'm on the hunt!”_  
> -”On the Hunt”, Lynyrd Skynyrd

_June 30, 1986_.

Today was my birthday! I awoke this morning to the smell of pancakes and fresh brewed coffee emerging from the kitchen. Once I had gotten up, Mom gave me a birthday hug and soon thereafter, Dad called me up to tell me happy birthday. I pretty much spent the whole morning lounging on the couch until Ceecee came over to tell me that the boys were about to try things again over at the Coliseum.

Granted, I wasn’t really willing to get dressed and go anywhere all throughout the day but she made it sound as though they were awaiting us there again, especially since today was my birthday and I had a hunch that they wanted to see me again.

And so I put on my little yellow shorts, and a black camisole, and my sandals, and the two of us drove over to the Coliseum again. Apparently Clara wasn’t feeling well this morning and she encouraged us to go on without her: surely Frankie and Charlie would understand.

But we arrived there at roughly the same time as yesterday, only to find that there was no line of music fans awaiting outside of the venue. Indeed, the place looked dark.

We went to the same place as before, around the back of the venue and down the alleyway to the spot underneath right Ozzy’s dressing room.

And we found the most horrific thing I had ever seen in my young life: the corpse of a woman with a huge gash on her chest. She lay there lifeless on the sidewalk, on her side with a series of newspapers covering her body. I could only make out the blood spatters on her arms as they reached up over her head and the clumps of blood in her otherwise smooth blonde hair; someone had opened up her chest and left it to hemorrhage out onto the sidewalk.

“The King of Hearts was here,” Ceecee had managed to sputter out; I looked over at her in time to find her face turning as white as paper.

Someone called my name and I turned my attention to the building next door, and Lars and Kirk calling for us. I grabbed Ceecee by the arm and we ran away from that spot towards them. Turned out the building next door was their hotel: Metallica in the downstairs hotel rooms and Anthrax up on the second floor.

Kirk told us that the remainder of their tour dates had been cancelled because of their bank accounts running dry. I asked him if they knew at all about the corpse in the alleyway and he raised an eyebrow and widened his eyes at me, and said, “…corpse?”

Ceecee and I glanced at one another nervously, and then I returned to him with a slow nod of the head.

“Call 911,” Lars commanded him. Kirk ran back inside to tell the others and do just that, and then Lars guided us into the lobby of the hotel.

“Not really the best scene I could’ve asked for my birthday,” I confessed to him, and he threw his lanky arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“How ‘bout that?”

“Now that, I can deal with.”

Even though the place was put on lock down for about an hour, or at least until the cops could have the scene safely secured before we did anything else, those nine boys knew how to throw a girl a birthday party. Joey and James sat on either side of me there on the couch in the lobby while Ceecee managed to get us some coffee from the next room; Kirk and Cliff vowed to get me some cupcakes from the bakery down the street once the lock down was lifted.

“That’s very sweet of you guys, but my mom’s gonna get me a cake later today,” I promised them, but Cliff in particular insisted on it.

James told me this was their last here in Seattle and Metallica would be heading on back to San Francisco and Anthrax back to New York.

“Then we better make every second count,” I said to him, and he put his arm around me and held me close to his chest, much to both my enjoyment as well as confusion. I wanted to ask him where was this James yesterday afternoon but I need not risk it with Joey sitting right there to the right of me. But out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but see him with his face turned towards us: the prominent tip of his Roman nose caught my attention. I flashed a glimpse over at him as his gaze dropped to the floor and his lips pursed together.

Once the lock down was lifted, Kirk and Cliff kept their promise and headed on down to the bakery for some cupcakes, and Joey stepped outside for a moment alone. I wondered if that sight there right next to him was a bit too much and thus I told James to hang tight for a second. I followed him out there onto the street; I glanced to my left to find the alleyway completely closed off by the yellow caution tape, so I figured he could’ve only gone right. I strode down the sidewalk to the edge of the building, only to find Joey squatting down around the corner with his long luxurious curled sprawled all around his shoulders. He gazed up at me with the afternoon sun shining into his deep eyes and a thoughtful look on his face.

“Are you alright?” I asked him, and he gestured for me to join him down there. I squatted down next to him, right next to his skinny thigh and his even skinnier knee.

He asked me, “can you keep a secret?” And I said yes, of course.

He was silent for a good long minute before speaking again and the whole time I had this nagging thought in the back of my mind that he was going to ask me out. I just felt it: the look on his face at me and James, he was jealous! Prior to then, I had never really desired to have a relationship with anyone, much less with a guy like him, the frontman of a band I only just heard of. But Joey was kind enough to me that I encouraged him to lower his walls a bit so I could see the darling boy on the inside. He swallowed and shifted his weight, and looked on at me, those deep brown eyes laced with apprehension. And then he leaned over and whispered, “the feeling of death is in the air right now. I have a bad feeling.”

I shifted my weight and told him, “it doesn’t help that this was the second victim of a similar crime like this.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “Really?”

“Yeah, the first one apparently looked a lot like me. And it was right near Ceecee and Clara’s house.”

He said “oh my God” in a voice so soft that I swore it floated in on the wind. He then made a gesture resembling to a pen and a paper as if I had something to write on, and I shook my head.

“Damn it. Well, I ask because you have our numbers–and the tour is cancelled until the end of August when we go over to Europe–I want to write to you at some point.”

“You can always tell it to me,” I assured him, “and I’ll find something to write on once we get back inside–” I stopped.

“Are you jealous of James at all?”

“What? Me? No way.” He cracked a cute broken smile at me.

“Come on…”

He swallowed and bowed his head enough to hide part of his face with the rich black ringlets on the side of his head.

“Okay, yeah, maybe just a little. It doesn’t help matters he held you close to him. Hey, you know, sometimes I like to hold Danny like that.”

“Why?” I laughed.

“‘Cause he’s little! Those of us on the other side of five and a half feet in height need to protect the small ones.” He huddled closer to me even though it wasn’t anywhere close to being cold that day.

“So you wanna tell me?” I asked him.

“Sure.” And he said it to me, and I said it back aloud so I could remember it with ease. I stated it twice more to familiarize myself with it and then Kirk and Cliff arrived with the cupcakes.

“I’m so skinny I should probably eat all of those,” Joey cracked once we were back inside of the cool lobby, which brought a laugh out of both me and Ceecee. I muttered his address over and over again under my breath until I spotted a pen and one of those little pads of paper on the front desk. I wrote it down real quick when James sauntered up to me with a cupcake in hand for me.

“Happy birthday,” he told me with a little grin upon his face.

“Thank you.” I folded up the paper and stuffed it into my left shorts pocket before taking the cupcake, and he knitted his eyebrows at me.

“What was that?” he asked me.

“That was just a…” I caught a quick glimpse of Joey eyeing me with suspicion from the other side of the room with a big red cupcake in hand. “…a little note to self.”

“I see. Hey, you know, I’ve got an idea, seeing as you’ve got all of our numbers with you. Scott and I were actually talking about this on the way here–we should write once in a while. You know, in case you don’t feel like giving us a ring.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely!” Unbeknownst to him that I already have Joey’s address there in my pocket, but I still took another little piece of paper to write down James’ address. I put it in my right pocket so as to not get them both jumbled there in some place as trivial as my shorts pocket. Afterward, I looked over at Joey, who still kept eyeing me from across the room as he conversed with Frankie and Danny about something. I could smell the jealousy, even now after my birthday dinner at home and after the boys all returned home.

I can sense his jealousy even with the uneasy feeling of death in the air. I guess I’m going to have to write him sooner than anticipated.


	6. The first letter to Joey

Joey-  
For a second I had worried that I had lost your address given I went through my shorts and it wasn't there but lucky for me it was tucked inside of the deepest recesses of the pocket. I just wanted to say that because we're all on edge right now here in Seattle. I have to wear a hat now whenever I go out because I could found out from... Ceecee and Clara call the murderer "the King of Hearts."  
First of all, how are you? How's life in upstate? And moreover, how's life with Anthrax at the moment? Are you guys planning on doing an album? Or is that something you can't really talk about at the moment? I'll totally understand if that's the case.  
Ceecee and I are thinking of doing more small gigs as Black Moon together, seeing as you fellas all enjoyed our little show following the cancellation of the main one.  
I have to confess something to you seeing as yet another murder happened, this time about a block away from the first one near Ceecee and Clara's house: I can't stop thinking about the look you flashed at me the other day in the hotel when James had his arm around me. And I want you to know that I do in fact feel a little something for you, but it's a little bit risky at the moment, so don't ever be afraid to open up to me. I'm a writer: I'm used to the emotive and the most touchy of feelings because that's where the power of the pen comes in. I can handle whatever comes my way because I know I can rely on words to bring it forth.  
My mom, who's a reporter for the _Seattle Times_ , has been put on investigating the whole ordeal. She's put both me on a curfew of sorts because the murderer has been targeting young blonde women who are artists in some way, which, you know, spooks me.  
In the meantime, Clara also wants to help me make you something, like a little painting or a drawing of the three of us. Something you can put in your room and hang up over your bed so it's the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning. I just want to see your thoughts, to feel the pen strokes under my fingertips. So, please - pretty please - give me a ring or a write because I have to admit... I'm a little afraid, Joey. I love this city but this has got me thinking now.

Give everyone my love,  
Chris xoxo


	7. The first letter to James

James-  
I have to tell you this as I'm not sure what's going to happen next between us. Everything is just so tense here at the moment. I'm just going to keep this short and to the point.  
How is everything? How are you?  
I keep thinking about everything you told me on the first day at the restaurant, when we all went to lunch the day after we all met each other.  
I want to get to know you better. I know I can be a bit strong at first, but I assure you I am of good company.  
Another thing I keep thinking about is the look you flashed at me when Ceecee and I were performing for all of you fellas outside of the Coliseum. You looked so touched and so lost in the music. I know that underneath that gruff, firm demeanor is a young boy waiting to come alive and be loved by the world at large.  
I don't know if it's part of something I'm not aware of, but I want to come closer to you. I tell you this because another murder happened near us, and the future is uncertain at this point.  
Please let me know ahead of time, but take your time, though. Ceecee and I have nothing planned at the moment, so you can write back whenever you feel it to be appropriate.  
Give everyone my love,  
Chris


	8. The one with teenage whores and miniskirts

_July 12, 1986_.

Today, as of writing this, I have to admit to something, and not to mention, it's the one thing I hate doing. I actually have confess to doing something kind of off-color. I say this because the whole neighborhood is on high alert still from the murders and I have been needing a release of sorts.

( _Charlotte's note: surely it can't be that bad? One time a button flew off of my top and it showed off the front of my bra and a lot of skin. I didn't realize it at first, even with all of the leering gazes at me._ )

It was kind of a warm day today and so Ceecee and I were walking about the neighborhood in these little black miniskirts and matching camisoles, and our mirrored sunglasses. She made a joke about the two of us wearing black even in the hot summer sun, I forget the exact phrasing of it but it got a laugh out of me. I also told her we should perform another show dressed like this but in an outdoor arena where the audience consists of sweat and flower power as far as the eye can see. All the while, the two of us should garner enough sweat to render us the hottest chicks in Seattle.  
We were sitting at the little juice shop a few blocks away from the neighborhood, right there on the front porch so we could feel the cool lick of a breeze coming in from the Puget Sound. I was thinking about Joey and James, and if either of them received my letters. Ceecee sat there in the chair underneath the umbrella sipping on her little cup of strawberry kiwi juice with ice mixed in, and then at one point, she peered over her sunglasses at me. She might've been looking at my chest, I can't say.  
But I noticed her staring at me and I asked her, "penny for your thoughts?"  
And she replied, "do you ever think of the boys at all?"  
"All the time. Ever since I sent off the letters to James and Joey, I've been thinking about them so much as of late."  
She folded her arms over her chest and atop the table—it was one of those tables with the phony diamond-shaped grating making up the top of it. But I don't think she cared about whether or not upon lifting her arms, she had those markings on her skin. She licked her lips and let the sunglasses slide down the bridge of her nose a bit so she peeked over at me. The sun was high in the sky at that point, such that even the slightest of breeze could send me into a rouse of euphoria.  
"Do you remember when we were in high school," she began again, this time in a low voice, low enough just for me to hear, "and if we weren't studying music or writing and whatnot, I would try and get a rise out of you and guys I thought you liked?"  
"How could I forget?" I teased her, sipping through the straw.  
"So what do you think?" she continued.  
"What do I think what?"  
"About James and Joey. You oughta share your feels for them. I saw how the two of them were looking at you when we were performing outside of the Coliseum when the show was cancelled. Joey had this spark in his eye the second you opened your mouth. And then there was James and how he held you when we were in the hotel a couple of weeks ago on your birthday."  
I squirmed in my seat. I never liked it when Ceecee would whip out questions like that in high school and to this day, I still feel put in a Petri dish and slotted under the bottom lens of a microscope.  
"Come on, Chris. Admit it—there are two guys you've got your eye on. Surely you feel one more than the other."  
She gave her reddish hair a light toss back from her neck and I could tell she was feeling hot herself.  
"Last night, Clara and I were talking to each other about the guys. And she told me Frank and Charlie seem like such sweethearts, because they were willing to let her get close to them both. I have to admit, I think Kirk and Cliff are both totally hot. I can see it in their eye, too. Cliff thought I was this hot little thing while Kirk could hardly take his eyes off of me. Now what about James and Joey for you, though?"  
I nibbled on my bottom lip. I'll admit, I felt so much uncertainty right at that moment. We were out in public with the sun beating down on the umbrella over us and the breeze lacked enough to make me want my scrunchie. I didn't have it because I never thought it would be that hot under the umbrella.  
"Come on, Chris. You always came up short in school—but we're not teenage whores anymore. So come on. Uncover yourself."  
I sighed through my nose.  
"Okay," I started. "First of all, I like how James always keeps me guessing. And I think it's just his blond hair, but I almost felt like I saw some of myself in him when we first met."  
"Wow," she remarked, reaching for one of the napkins on the table before us.  
"He also seemed... I wanna say 'lost'. Like he doesn't have any idea where he's going in life. It makes sense given his past and whatnot. I like how tall he is, too. Makes me feel a little more... I'd say feminine."  
"And what about Mr. Joey?"  
"Joey..." I was diving into unknown territory here. Talking about James allowed me to dip my toe into some reservoir of myself that I was unaware of for years. I looked on Ceecee, who kept the tip of the straw pressed to her bottom lip.  
"What do you think of Joey?" she repeated, still keeping her voice low.  
"Joey... is..." I sputtered.  
"Yes?"  
"...sexy."  
Her lips curled up into a mischievous smile right then.  
"Oh, come on, you just wanted me to say that," I scoffed at her.  
"Alright, I'll admit it," she teased me, accompanying it with a roll of her eyes. "But be honest, though. Tell me what it is that you want with that reg."  
"James, I wanna help and collaborate with. Joey—" I paused again. It was on the tip of my tongue.  
"Chris, have you ever touched yourself before?" she asked me.  
"What!" I could feel my face growing hot, and I had no idea if it was from the heat of the sun or from embarrassment.  
"Be honest, have you ever touched yourself before?"  
"Like..." I nodded down to in between my legs.  
"Exactly."  
I shifted my weight in my seat again.  
"Don't tell you haven't!"  
"Cees, I've always been focused on school and improving our careers. I could never muster the time or the energy to do something... like that."  
"Well, it's really simple, though. Just think of Joey and put your hand down your pants and stroke your fingers on that spot right between your legs."  
"Ceecee!" I hissed at her.  
"What?"  
"We're in public!"  
"That just makes it hotter, though," she pointed out. She turned her head, probably to make sure no one was looking in our direction.  
"Think of his dick," she whispered into my ear. "Think of his butt. Picture him with no clothes on!"  
" _Ceecee_!"  
"Chris, you obviously think he's hot stuff given you hesitated twice when you tried to talk about how you feel about it."  
The whole thing made me so uncomfortable. I wasn't used to feeling that way about someone, much less someone like Joey. Whenever I tried to not think of him, I could only think of him more and more. Ceecee's mischievous grin wasn't helping matters, either.  
"I don't want to talk about it, though," I insisted, standing to my feet, picking up my juice, and stalking away from there. The sun beat down on my back but it was the least of my problems at that point. I uncovered something within me and my own best friend kept pushing me towards it when I didn't want to, at least not right there in public.  
"Chris, wait!" she called after me. I kept walking up the sidewalk, underneath a row of oak trees, much to my relief because the breeze had held still for too long at that point. I took my seat behind one of the trees there on the grass.  
"Chris!" she repeated, but I didn't turn around even with her calling out to me.  
"Chris," she said again in a huff. I folded my arms over the tops of my knees to hide myself from her. She sat down right next to me: I glared over at the sunglasses still balanced on the bridge of her nose.  
"Why did you do that?" I demanded. "You put me in a really uncomfortable position back there, between the damn heat on the umbrella to the fact I could never answer a question like that, especially in a public setting."  
"I know, I know," she confessed, "and I feel bad, too. When you stormed away, I thought 'shit, that was too much. I've gotta apologize to her.'"  
I fumed and turned my head away from her to take another sip of juice. I never liked answering those sorts of questions and I still don't, even with Ceecee having pushed me over the edge like she did.  
"You know, if it makes you feel any better," she began again, "I had this weird feeling when Cliff first laid eyes on me, like he wanted to have sex with me right there in the alleyway outside of the Coliseum."  
"Really?" I was shocked by that.  
"Yeah. He kept looking at me like he was checking me out and whenever I said something to him, he got this... I wanna say naughty look on his face. Kept licking his lips and at one point, I looked down at his jeans and I could sense it."  
She shifted her weight right there right next to me.  
"I also wanted to bring it up because I've always wanted to talk about other things other than the same shit we talk about all the time, too. Yeah, it's kinda dumb at times—especially now with the King of Hearts on the loose—but you know, I think of it as like with music. There comes a point where it stops being playful and turns into serious business. There comes a point where the phrase 'I wanna fuck someone silly' stops being a joke. So—I hope you can forgive me for pushing you over the edge."  
I was silent for a good long while before I spoke again. Maybe she was right and maybe this was a sign that I need to stop feeling as though the whole world is out to get me. We're a band, for crying out loud. Maybe this was a step in the right direction for me, to admit that I feel like this for a guy I met not even a few weeks ago.  
"You know," I started again, "if it makes you feel any better, I'll have you know that yes—I meant it when I said Joey is sexy."  
"I thought so," she confessed. "It was just that momentary hesitation that gave it away. But I just couldn't resist the grin on my face when you said that, because I thought 'yes! Chris is the real deal!' But that's good, though, that you think he can get it. So let's expand on it—what do you like about him?"  
"I like his legs, he's got very nice legs."  
"They're awful thin, though."  
"He's a hockey player so I would think of nice, sinewy toned muscles."  
"Oh, I see. What else?"  
"I like his hips, too."  
"Ooh, sensual. I've always had a thing for hips, too."  
"I like his hair. It's that nice lush curly black hair that's got this sweet flyaway quality to it."  
"Kirk's hair is like that, too," she added.  
"Oh, yeah, it is! And... I don't know about you, but... Joey just looks—sweet, I'd say. You know, he's got those big brown eyes and that kind of shy look on his face. He looks like a really sweet guy. We also haven't heard him sing, either."  
"Oh, I know!" Ceecee declared. "I'm dying to hear him sing. Kirk and Frank both say he's got pipes like it's nobody's business. I hope we can hear him at some point."  
"And—this is just me, but I like how skinny Joey is. I dunno, he's just—" And once I couldn't resist the smile on my face, I knew that was it. I am attracted to Joey. "—just something about the lack of flesh on his body that makes me—"  
"Chris," she stated.  
"Yeah?"  
"You know, we're in miniskirts."  
"And?"  
"There's no one around, either."  
"Ceecee, no."  
"Come on. Like I said—just reach down and have a little touch in between your legs. I'll admit it was weird for me when I did it the first time. But think of Joey—think of everything that gets you riled up about him and touch yourself."  
I nibbled on my bottom lip and realized she was right. We both peered around to make sure no one was walking by or so happened to look in our direction. I sighed through my nose and took one final sip of juice before I unbuttoned my skirt. Despite the heat, she nestled up right next to me to protect me. I sank my fingers on the inside of my underwear and down in between my legs.  
I thought of Joey's legs, docked in those skintight painted-on jeans and accentuated by his black leather boots, stretching all the way up to his hips and his waist. I could only imagine how his butt looked in them. He's so skinny, and yet so hungry.  
Hungry for those cupcakes.  
Hungry for something else.  
  
So my apology is I'm sorry I actually jerked off in public. I never got caught given Ceecee had a good watch on the street before us, but I'm glad there wasn't a cop roaming about because a ticket for exposure is the last thing my mom needs to worry about, what with the murders and the victims resembling to me and whatnot.


	9. The one with black moons and razor blades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning: this chapter mentions self-harm that parallels the bout I went through in middle school (I was bullied to the point of overkill; let's just leave it at that), and also anxiety, specifically the kind I experienced back in late 2013 to the point of it almost sending me to the psych ward.
> 
>  _"Break your back,  
>  We've all been through it.  
> Only time; time will tell   
> Life is hard, there's nothing to it."_  
> -"Nothing to Hide," Joey Belladonna

_August 14, 1986_.

All of this pertaining to the murders are beginning to get to me, even with the fact that most of them are happening near our house. Add to this, the forensic workers identified the victim near the Coliseum: apparently, she looked almost exactly like me. There was another one about a week ago who, once again, resembled me almost down to the blonde hair. The sole difference was that both women identified lacked the colored streaks in their hair.   
Ceecee continues to refer to him as the King of Hearts given these two women's hearts had been pulled right out of their chests: it's almost as if he knows how to cut through human flesh and bone using nothing more than a scalpel, or some kind of clean blade. They're suspecting it's someone with extensive knowledge in surgery. It seems obvious and yet I can't help but wonder about it.  
I can say with confidence that I don't know the culprit, and even if I did, I would run to the nearest payphone and call up the police to get him arrested. But how am I supposed to identify a murderer when I have no idea what he looks like?  
I do hope Joey and James received my letters. I miss hearing Joey's voice and I miss feeling James next to me.  
I have this nagging sensation in the back of my mind, one that gives me an unnerving feeling I don't want to know.  
Ceecee and Clara went out of town yesterday to Ellensburg, that quaint little town nestled on the eastern side of the mountains; for what, I forget. Mom left early this morning to tend to some other important business at her office, which means I've been alone all day today. I'm still alone right now: the house is eerily silent, the sole sounds being the refrigerator and the fan in my window. She told me to keep the front and back doors locked because of the murders.  
This morning, I called Scott to check in and see how they're doing, and the answering machine picked up. And I don't want to pester Joey with my words: I feel like that letter was enough already. I feel the same about James, too. I feel if I go too far with the whole communication game it can and will break down at the seams.  
I have too many questions, too many variables, too many things hanging over my head at the moment. Fear pervades everything. Too many spells of fear lingering over me.  
The King of Hearts could be anyone, lingering in the shadows as we grace the streets of Seattle. He's hidden by the darkness, by his facade. Lurking in the night sky, like the new moon, the black moon. He's a ghost, a phantom, a faceless entity out for blood.  
The blood of artists.  
He could be after me right now. He could be after me and my mom, and maybe Ceecee and Clara, and maybe Joey and James, too.  
Words do not suffice right now.

.

.

.

( _Charlotte's note: what on Earth?_ )

.

.

.

I can't believe I did that.  
I went into the kitchen just now for a drink of water. I walked past the drawer, the one with the knives inside. I tried to fight it. I tried to resist the urge.  
I ran into the bathroom and kept my hands on the rim of the sink basin as I stared at myself in the mirror. It's horrifying right now.  
I reached into the drawer and found what I was trying to resist.  
.

.

You know what they say. What you resist, persists. And-

( _Charlotte's note: ...is that blood_ )

The silver lining in what I did is that I feel better. The edge of the blade gave me the little sharp bite of pain that I needed. Or thought I needed anyway. It hurt like hell to do that, just a small slice on my skin, right on the side of my wrist, but the slice was enough to make me grimace and bleed all over the wash basin of the sink. So much blood for such a tiny little slit.  
Add to this, I can't stop the bleeding, even though I managed to find some gauze. What was I thinking? But it is in fact something that helped alleviate those persistent thoughts. Maybe if I do it again then the King of Hearts will have his work cut out for him. Maybe not, because it was damn foolish to do it the first time.  
I keep thinking that Mom's going to come home and wonder what is all of the red stuff in the wash basin of the sink.

.

.

.

( _Charlotte's note: oh. Oh my God_ )

Lucky for me, the blood came right out of the stone with some dish soap and a sponge. I also washed my hands well enough to avoid the risk of any questions thrown at me. Again. What was I thinking?  
The King of Hearts has probably never seen me. He's probably never even met me, and even if he did, what would he have against me? What have I done to him? I have to be safe from this maniac, and surely going out with Ceecee as Black Moon does in fact run its risks, but it can't be that horrific. At least—as far as we know and as far as forensic evidence goes, that is—the victims have all been murdered in their own homes from this guy. Perhaps going out and performing as Black Moon again once Ceecee and Clara return home will protect me from it. It can't be that bad. Right? Can it?


	10. The one with truth or dare

_August 3, 1986_.

So while I had the nerve to cut myself, I also have the nerve to dream about Joey and James now. I haven't told Ceecee or Clara about any of this, and I mustn't tell them lest I find myself in the throes of a label of being a pervert. It's bad enough that Mom often returns home now exhausted and unwilling to speak about anything now given these murders are pointing concern towards me. Each of the victims resemble me in some way, so of course I needn't leave the house very often.  
But seriously, if I had a dollar for every time I dared someone to put a hickey on the side of my neck when no one was looking, albeit carrying that dare out in a dream, I'd have quite the savings account by now and I'd be looking for a way out of here so I don't wake up dead. It's the third time this week I've dreamed about it, about getting alone with Joey and James in the front room of the house and having James lick and bite the side of my neck while Joey watches us. On one hand, I'm glad that it was just a dream because I can't imagine the awkwardness of Joey watching us. But on the other hand, I can't help but delve through it while it's still fresh within mind. It's such a fascinating testament of my subconscious and while continuing to wait for those two men to reply to me, that is if they ever do.

( _Charlotte's note: come on. It can't be that bad._ )

Okay, so what happened was James and I were sitting on the couch in the front room and Joey knelt down on the floor before the coffee table: he had his arms folded over the top of the table. I have a sense that James is the one with the predilection given he was the one looking at my lips and the underside of my neck like it was his dinner. But Joey had this twinkle in his eye, as if he was up to no good right there on the floor.  
"Come on, Chris," Joey beckoned me, giving his black curls a toss back with a flick of his head. "Truth or dare."  
If I picked truth, I knew I'd be subject to telling James I have no experience. Unless the sensation within my dreamlike state was right, I had no idea where this was going. I guess at some point, I picked the daringest of dares, for James to give me a hickey with Joey down there on his knees.  
"It's a simple question, Chris, babe," said James. "Only if you're scared." He showed me this big goofy Cheshire cat grin which made me squirm in my seat: if this was in real life, I knew I'd be shitting myself.  
But I fetched up a sigh and pushed my blonde hair back from the side of my neck, and tilted my head back.  
"It's clean," I assured him, even though I could not, for the life of me, remember if I had taken a shower or not during the dream. The skin felt clean and smooth, as if I had just washed it down with the softest smelling soap James could dream of. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed both James and Joey and this look on both of their faces as though I was about to suck both of their dicks.  
"I dunno... what do you think, Joe?" asked James.  
"I could eat pasta off that neck," he replied, that crooked grin making its way onto his face once again. And there's a small, narrow part of me that wants to eat pasta off of that flat washboard belly of his, but that's another dream for another night, I guess.

( _Charlotte's note: !!!!!!!!!!!!_ )

But this is what I get, though. I brought myself into this room here with these two men. This room, alone, in a triad with these two men. But then again, it wasn't like I was asking for a three-way with them. But in the meantime, I've been a bad girl and now I needed my punishment in the form of a gentle bite mark on the side of my neck. What I get for even thinking of two men at the same time.  
James patted on the cushion next to him so I could be closer to him.  
"Besides, even if your neck is filthy, I'll just clean it right off for you," he assured me with a wink. I flashed a glimpse over at Joey, who propped his head up on his hands as though he was expecting one of us to tell him a story.  
"Slowly this time," he suggested. "Last time, you went way too fast so I couldn't tell if either of you were liking it or not."  
My God, Joey.  
James pushed back some more of my hair so my neck was spotless. He began with a light kiss there on the base, right near the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and then made his way up towards my ear. Even there, in the dream, his lips felt plush and soft to the touch, such a soft touch that I trembled at the sensation.  
"Hold still," he ordered me in a hushed whisper. "Hold still, you little bitch."  
While it was rather jarring of him to say that, I nibbled on my bottom lip at the soft sweeping feeling on my skin. I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see Joey's brown eyes staring back at me. With every plush push of his lips, I felt my body relaxing. He had such a gentle grip on the crown of my head and on my shoulder. There was no way I couldn't not enjoy this here.  
And then he bit me.  
His teeth ground on my skin first and then he traded it for a straight-up nibble. He was gentle but it was in fact a bite. He used his teeth.  
I opened my eyes to find Joey eyeing me with intent. He had his hands up by his mouth so I could only make out the straight shape of his Roman nose and see into those big brown eyes. I had my eyes locked onto this as James' tongue made its way onto my skin, right on the spot where he bit me.  
I feel my mouth getting wet at the thought of it, and I hate the fact it is getting wet.  
I think I gasped when he licked me, and then he followed it up with another kiss there on the same spot. I kept my eye on Joey the whole time James traded in between delicate little kisses, slow licks, and gentle bites.  
"I want you to lay down," James whispered into my ear at one point, even though I was pretty much laying down on the couch at that point. Giving it some rational thought, I'm amazed I didn't duck out from underneath and run out of there. But I did it anyway: I lay down there on my side on the couch cushions. I still had my eye on Joey as I stretched out my arms so they hung over the edge of the cushion.  
"There ya go," James teased into my ear, still in a hushed voice. "You do this often?"  
I actually don't but I never responded to him. I knew they were both thinking of my giving their dicks some attention. I like both of these guys: dream or not, why was I so reticent to this?  
My mouth had gotten too wet, and it's still wet now in real life, and thus I opened my mouth to breathe right as he leaned down onto me. His lanky body was warm and tender right up against my own, and his right hand slid down onto my hip and followed the curvature of the bone onto my side. I swore I could feel him running his hand down onto my thigh and in between them. If I didn't have pants on, I knew he'd give me a little fingering right there. I wanted to roll off of the couch, but I knew that would only entice him even more. I was stuck. I was stuck and being pleasured.  
It didn't help matters that Joey was shifting his weight and struggling to get comfortable down there on the floor. James' right hand, the one caressing my hip and my thigh, slid up my belly towards my breasts. I realized I wasn't wearing a top and so his fingers made their way onto the underside of my breasts: the pads of his fingers caressed over the skin surrounding the point of my nipples. I could feel them tightening—I can feel them tightening right now!  
He lifted his lips for a soft whimper into my ear. It was like he parted his lips and gave me a gentle, but definite groan right onto the side of my head there. I can still feel his breath on my skin and my hair, warming me up with that moist heat from the back of his throat.  
"Oh, you're good at this!" he declared right into my ear. He returned his lips to my neck and kept on kissing and nibbling on my neck until Joey finally leaned back onto his elbows and rolled onto his feet.  
"Where you goin'?" James teased him. He was breathing hard and I could tell he was getting hard on top of that.  
"I'm getting—hungry," he confessed.  
"There's plenty of food in the kitchen," I retorted to him.  
"Nah, I was thinkin' we'd go out to eat," he told me. James pinched my nipple and that was when I clambered onto my feet. I clutched at my breasts to hide them from him, but I had nowhere to hide from Joey and the flustered look on his face. He lunged for me, and put his arms around my waist, and held still right there in front of me for a moment. His body was warm and soft, warmer and softer than I had originally known.  
Running a fever, even in my dream.  
"Hang on, it's my turn now," James insisted; I peered over at him and the mischievous grin on his face. The spot where he gave me the hickey was throbbing from the bites: I knew if I looked into a mirror it would glare back at me like one of the heads of their cocks. I swear I can still feel the heat of James' breath on my neck. I swear he bit me there for real.  
"I know what this next dare is going to be." I returned to Joey and the stray tendrils of black hair dangling down in his face. They're both nasty bad boys and I was the one girl in this room. Even against those rich brown irises, I could make out his pupils dilating. Joey leaned in closer to my face as if he was about to kiss me, but he didn't. Instead, he clutched onto my shoulders and dropped back down onto his knees. He stared up at me from down there on the floor.  
"Take 'em off," he ordered me.  
"You're a natural, Chris," James called from the couch. "You're tight. I bet that, since Joey has quite the voice, he can go quite deep and loosen you up. You really fucking can go deep with him."  
"C'mon," Joey begged in a soft voice and with his eyebrows raised up, as if he was begging for dessert. "Take these off for me, my domme."  
I was hesitant, but I held onto the button of my jeans and undid them for him. But before I could take off my underwear, he used his index finger and his thumb to peel them back.  
I was exposed for them both, but Joey patted the inside of my thighs so I could spread for him. I swallowed and opened for him.  
"I wanna eat with my hands first," he confessed me.  
"Go ahead," I encouraged him, even though I was trembling all over again. Joey showed me his tongue and then he let his fingers caress over my bare thighs, right over the band of my underwear. He stroked the inside of my thighs and then—

( _Charlotte's note: and then?_ )

I could feel his fingertips wriggling inside of me. It was a strange feeling, having his fingers worm their way in between my lips and have their way on the inside. It was like being tickled as the pads of his fingers fondled and poked and stroked within me.  
"Joey, you nasty, funky dog," James cracked.  
"I'm hungry," he breathed out at me. "And I know you are, too, Chris." He showed me his tongue once again as he motioned for me to spread apart even more.  
"Hell yeah, Joe's gonna make that cherry pop!" James cheered from the couch.  
"I do like a bit of cherry on my sundae—"  
He took his fingers out of me and slid his tongue in their place. It was nothing like James running his tongue on the side of my neck, especially Joey gazing right up at me from down in between my legs. My heart is pounding just thinking about it again: he let his tongue slither inside of me deep, tasting me and having his kiss of cherry for his sundae.  
I don't know what overcame me, but I reached down for a handful of his curls and gave him a little tug.  
"Come on, you can do better than that!" James called out again. "I dare ya! I dare ya!"  
I tugged on Joey's hair again.  
"That's it," he choked out, continuing to show me his tongue; I tugged again. "that's—it! Give this dog what he wants!" His voice was breaking and he snapped his eyes shut again. He slid his tongue back within me. He was doing it: he was eating me and James watched the whole thing happen.  
I can't recall the rest of what happened after that, given I had woken up but I have a feeling that if Joey asked me for some cherry, I'd give it to him. And I know if James ever warmed up enough for a cuddle, I'd do it. I may be reticent, sure, but I won't say no if they ask nicely.


	11. The first letter back from Joey

( _Charlotte's note: I'm glad that Chris decided to keep her letter to him, or perhaps it's a copy. I don't know, and I can't fully tell, either. Either way, this helps me organize this whole thing together. Now, let's see what Joey has to say...  
Oh, this letter is beautiful! He wrote it on heavy buttery yellow parchment paper that smells of incense, even fourteen years after the fact. Even the black ink smells lovely; there's no musty smell to be found. It's as if he went out of his way to make this thing beautiful. I can see how she saved this and kept it in a safe place.  
His handwriting is... a bit rough, though? I might have to read it a couple of times. But he made this letter gorgeous anyway._)

Chris-

First of all, I want to thank you for writing to me when you found the time. And let me just say that I absolutely love your penmanship, it's an art form in and of itself. I almost feel like my own handwriting sucks in comparison, and it doesn't help that it's hotter than holy fuck here and the pen keeps slipping out of my hand.  
Anyway, I want to tell you that I feel comforted by the fact you're willing to be open with me. It must be terrifying to live in a place like that. I think about that day we were at the hotel and we found that corpse in the alleyway. I'm not gonna lie - and you can quote me on this, too, like I didn't tell anyone about this - I actually thought that was you laying on the ground and covered in those newspapers. At first, anyway. I realized it wasn't you, but I just about had a coronary right there.  
You know I would love to see whatever Clara makes. She is an inspiration to us all, making up what she loses in her sight with her other senses.  
I also want to hear you ladies perform again, if and when you get the chance, and if and when we come to Seattle again.  
And before I forget, I should tell you this. This is another thing I haven't told anyone - I haven't even told my parents this - when I saw you with James there in the hotel lobby, I wanted to put my arm around you again. I mean... I like James and whatnot, but I like you, too. You're a cool chick, you rock (you play guitar!), and I like rocker chicks who play guitar.  
But I'm also not gonna lie when I say this, either: I feel a little weird saying that, like it's a little too soon to admit to that. But when you performed for us, I got this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach. I got it again when we were squatting there around the other side of the hotel. I feel weird, but I also feel better saying that if... you know, that makes any sense at all. I can't tell my parents about it, because they're kinda... sticks in the mud, I'd say.  
Anyways, I'm rambling. I want you to take yourself and Ceecee and Clara. I want you to stay safe because that day in the alley was a swift kick in the nuts for me.

All of my love (and give yo mama a hug for me),  
Joey


	12. The one with the new classes

_August 24, 1986_.

I am over the moon by the fact Joey actually wrote back to me. This letter is absolutely beautiful, like I can't believe he actually went out of his way to make this thing look and smell so good. I have it propped up on my desk so it can make my room smell good.  
I'm just going to keep this entry short because all I want to say is Ceecee and I are going back to school. We signed up at the last minute, but we are in fact going to school at the little community college in the center of town. She's, of course, going to be the music major while I'll be the English major. We start on the second, next Tuesday!  
Apparently - and when I say that, I mean according to Clara - if we put up a tip jar of sorts during our new performances, we can make the funds to pay for our classes.  
We both confirmed to do this because Frankie called Ceecee last night to tell her they and Metallica are going to be going on tour over in Europe in the next couple of weeks, and the two of us are going to be bored, at least until they come back to the States. So we figured that if we go to school and blend in with the crowds there, the King of Hearts will have his work cut out for him. Mom and I discussed it a few weeks ago when the murders began to string together, and she agreed with me that I should do that, to attend school again and not worry about a serial killer on the loose.  
She also quipped that I go and enjoy life, that I mustn't live in this house in fear, that I should go forth and make new friends and maybe, just maybe, expand the audience of Black Moon a bit more. We garnered attention from Anthrax and Metallica, after all. Granted, I can't seem to shake the image of all of the victims bearing resemblance to me in some way, but that mustn't stop me from doing what I love. I lost a bet to my best friend, picked up a guitar, began writing songs, touched myself in public, and met Joey and James all because of my lust for life, all because of what I love. The King of Hearts has nothing on me.  
There is one thing that I think about, though, and it comes to me as I'm looking at the letter Joey wrote to me. I'm reading it again, and I can sense it. He's worried about me. I get it: there's a serial killer lurking around at the moment and so he's concerned that there is in fact a possibility that I might wake up dead.  
But again, it goes back to the whole conversation my mom and I had: I have to live, and this includes Joey, as well as James. I'm wedged in the middle of these two men and there's blood on the ground before us, the blood of other blonde artistic-in-some-way women spilled on the cold ground before us. As I'm starting school next week, I have two heartthrobs on either side of me even as the body count rises.  
And...  
I have to confess...  
.  
.  
.  
...it's hot as fuck.


	13. The first letter from James

_(Charlotte’s note: where Joey went out of his way to make his letter beautiful and aromatic, James’ is almost utilitarian. A plain leaf of notebook paper, it’s got very little flare to it, like he did it in a haste. Makes sense... they were leaving for Cardiff in a week’s time and he has to make something. Perhaps I’m just being too critical. Let’s see where he’s going with this—_ )

Chris—

I’m not sure how to describe this or write this out, and we’re gonna be leaving for the British Isles in a few days so I’m gonna do my best here.

Thanks for writing to me! You know, I got the biggest goofiest smile on my face when I saw your letter in the little mailbox next to my door.

I’m really sorry you’re going through all this bullshit right now with the serial killer and whatnot. I wish I could give some insight on how to stay strong and brave, but all I can say is to keep on walking and hope you don’t wander down the road to oblivion.

I know what it’s like to feel alone, and to feel like your parents can be useless at times, but even with the bullshit they put you through, always know that it’s to help you. I never would’ve found music or met Lars and Dave had my parents not been so screwed up. Yeah, I’m pissed my mom’s gone and my dad is nowhere to be seen, but at least I have an outlet.

You keep it up with your own writing and your music—we’d love to see you ladies again soon before too long!

As for my topsy-turvy behavior, I think it’s just from the fact I never actually had a girl have an interest in me before. I’m sure Joey’ll agree with me on that, too—neither of us have had a girl before. Except I’ll admit to it: he’s more of a harder nut to crack than I am.

Anyways, give Ceecee and Clara a hug for me, and actually all four of us—Lars wants to bring you back something from Copenhagen when we stop there at the end of the month. Maybe danishes, maybe LEGO, I dunno.

And take care of yourself on top of it all.

James


	14. The one that's got rhythm

_September 2, 1986_.

Quite the interesting first day of school today so far: Ceecee and I walked to our first classes together with our guitar cases slung right over our shoulders. The both of us also had brought with us our old school bags with new binders and new pencils. She had taken an emptied out glass peanut butter jar which she had washed out quite well once every part of the peanut butter had been used up and carried it tucked it underneath her arm. Clara had found herself a series of canvases to work on her art while the two of us and our moms were gone all day.  
I liked my teacher in my writing class: an older gray hair woman with a bit of a filthy mouth to make things interesting over the quarter. Our first assignment is to write a story outside of our genre. It's going to be tricky for me because my genre is song lyrics and writing in a diary. So, perhaps a happy story? I'll have to give it some more thought.  
But all morning long, even with those jitters running through me, the ones that have haunted me since elementary school days that always happen the last day of summer before school starts, I couldn't stop thinking about James and Joey's letters back to me.  
Even when I'm sitting here in the student union and staring out the window at the incoming rain—I'm all alone for the time being because I can't necessarily play a set by myself if I wanted to. No way. Not without my guitarist. I forget when Ceecee gets out of her second class, but I hope soon because I'm aching to play a song for passersby.  
Anyway, even as I'm here all alone, I can't quit thinking about them.  
The one thing that stands out to me is how different they are. Joey has the one that has a soft silky aroma to it to accompany the soft silky mood of his own writing. Although to be fair, I think James had to hustle to write his to me.  
Joey worries about me here. James consoles with me.  
Either one is a good way to go and either one resonates with me to the point I'm finding myself caught up between the both of them.  
.  
.  
.  
I just took my guitar out of the case to see if it garners any attention and two guys on the other side of the room looked at me for a brief moment before turning away. Makes me wonder.  
I'm also dying to hear Joey and James sing for themselves. I hope that maybe if or when either of them call me when they arrive in Wales, I can get one of them to sing for me over the phone.  
I think it's hilarious that Joey calls me a chick who rocks because I play guitar. Ceecee is the virtuoso guitarist, not me. But I am in fact more than flattered.  
I touched him with my voice and my words. Even as I'm on the brink of the unknown, with death hovering over my head, I was able to tap into that cool demeanor and find a spot inside of his heart.  
.  
.  
.  
The mark I left on my wrist has finally healed up. Mom asked me about it and I told her I cut myself on accident. She has enough to worry about already: the last thing she needs is to find out I cut myself as a release of anxiety.  
.  
.  
.  
Mom and I were talking about the King of Hearts last night. The coroners' report on the first victim finally showed what had happened that night and the surgical wound on her chest was too clean even for an actual surgeon. The guy strangled her to death and then ripped out her heart as if it was effortless. A perfect gaping hole right in her chest where her heart used to be, and Mom told me that the coroners said it was impossible. Performing heart surgery of that magnitude, straight through the chest, would end with some broken ribs and a shattered breastbone. But the sole places he had broken the bones was to create the hole, like he had sawed clean through, and reached into her, and removed it that way.  
Sawed a perfect hole right in her chest and removed her heart without getting any bones inside of her. I can admit I don't know the first thing about heart surgery or forensics but that makes me squirm in my seat. It feels very mechanical, as if the King of Hearts has jigsaws for hands.  
.  
.  
.  
Ceecee just arrived! Thank Buddha.  
.  
.  
.  
She had brought with her that bright red bass guitar and her little amp, which she sat down on the top of the table and plugged it the main cable into the base of the body. I stayed in my chair as I took out my guitar and she leaned against the edge of the table. The peanut butter tip jar sat on the edge of the table, right between the two of us.  
We had ten minutes before we had to hustle to our next classes so we made it quick.  
The first song I thought of off-hand was Simon and Garfunkel's song "Cecilia", which I guess Ceecee was in fact christened after. Even in that student union, with its vast smooth walls and the big windows in between them, we managed to take advantage of it and play some music for the few people in there. The sound flowed up the walls and echoed across the table tops and everything in between to the point where it sounded huge in there. We garnered this big echo-y sound by way of that vast room: something perhaps the precursor to Phil Spector's wall of sound even with just the two of us.  
Her bass thumped and pounded against the table and the floor, and all up inside of my chest. She balanced out my wavering voice and my basic plucking. Lucky for us a couple of people stepped forward and left us a couple of tips. Not enough to pay for our classes, but we can do it again tomorrow. It's obvious that we've got the rhythm to serve a larger crowd.


	15. The one that went to Europe and never returned

_September 27, 1986_.

It's been so long since I wrote an entry in here: three weeks feels like forever it seems.  
Anyway, two major things happened in the past several hours.  
The first is I got a call from Joey this morning. Early this morning, too, like I was about to get out of bed and put on a pot of coffee for myself and for Mom when the phone rang in the kitchen. I ran down the hall and into there to pick it up and I recognized that upstate New York fused with Italian-American on the other end. It was such a relief to hear his voice again after not doing so for, again, what feels like forever. He sounded a little exhausted but also excited, as if he had gotten offstage not even a little bit before. I asked him the time and he said two thirty in the morning, so I figured he had had gotten offstage and he still had some adrenaline running through him.  
He also apologized if he woke me and I told him that I had just woken up and I was going to get out of bed anyway.  
He asked about me if I got his letter and I said yes, and that I included a point to write back to him again.  
I also asked him if it was alright for him to sing for me over the phone.  
"Sing for you?"  
"Yeah. I haven't heard your voice yet. I wanna hear you."  
"Well, hang on... I just shrieked my lungs out not even an hour ago, so I'm a little worn at the moment."  
Soon after clearing his throat, he brought the phone back to his mouth and sang "Separate Ways" by Journey for me.

( _Charlotte's note: WOW_ )

I closed my eyes to better savor his voice, his high clean voice with a lovely, strong vibrato. Smooth like a cup of hot chocolate on a New York sunrise, and yet almost pained sounding, perhaps from the fact he's so far away, or perhaps from the fact there's a serial killer potentially after me.  
I was alone in the kitchen, in the dark, in nothing more than a camisole and my pajama bottoms, with the rain pattering down on the roof overhead and his singing right into my ear.  
"You should sing me to sleep one night," I joked to him.   
"Oh, you know I'd love to do that for ya, doll face," he replied to me in a broken voice. I let out a quiet giggle. "I really would! Be right up next to you as you're in bed... in your PJ's... and I'm singing you to sleep."  
In retrospect, the more I think about that, the more I think he wanted to write in more in his letter back to me. The incense, the heavy parchment, the fact he tried to make it look nice for me...  
"Anyways—" And I heard him take a sip of water and then Frankie's voice and some other guy's voice behind him. "—huh? I'm talkin' to Chris. Okay." He returned to me.  
"I gotta go. The dudes from Metal Church all say 'hi'—" And three guys in the background let out loud cheers and I couldn't help but laugh at that.  
"Say 'hi' to Ceecee and Clara for all of us! And I'll be looking out for your name when I get home. Good morning from Stockholm."  
"And good night from Seattle!" We hung up the phone at the same time.  
  
And then, not even an hour ago, I got a call from James. The worst call I can imagine no less.  
Somewhere outside of Stockholm, probably not even an hour after I got off the phone with Joey given it happened in the early hours of the morning, Metallica's bus hit a patch of black ice as they were driving down the spine of Sweden, and they hydroplaned and rolled over onto the side.  
He told me that he, Lars, and Kirk were all okay, if all shaken down to their foundations.  
"What about Cliff?" I asked him. And he didn't reply.  
And I put two and two together.  
"No—" I sputtered out.  
"Yeah..." he replied, his voice breaking. "Yeah, the cop Lars talked to said—said—he was ejected from his bunk and the bus came—" And he abruptly cut himself off.  
I closed my eyes and almost dropped the phone on the floor right then. I felt sick—and I still feel sick now that I rationalize it and the reality sinks in. I am never going to see Cliff again, neither will Ceecee. I am never going to look into his face again as we're performing as Black Moon for them when we see them again.  
Moreover, that could've been James himself. Or Joey. Or any one of them, for that matter. The King of Hearts could kill anyone up here, but the fact that any one of them could've hit something as natural as black ice makes me sick.  
"Did you... did you at least tell Ceecee?" I asked him.  
"I didn't. I'm contemplating it, but—" He sniffled.  
"It's okay. I'm not there to hug you but I wish I was, though. I can tell her if you'd like."  
"Please do. Give her, Clara, and your mom a hug for us, though."  
"Of course, of course."  
"Chris—"  
"Yes?"  
I heard him sniffle again and then he followed it up with a gasp.  
"—I love you."  
My mouth went dry. I didn't know what to say right then. I think he said it again and then he followed it up with something else, but I can't recall it. I wanted to digest the news about Cliff and not think of either of them usurping his place at the scene of the accident first but I wanted to listen to him.  
I believe he burst into tears right then and I heard Lars speaking in the background, and he hung up. I stood there with the phone in my hand and the dial tone blaring in my ear, and my eyes burning with tears.  
I just got off the phone with Ceecee and she immediately started crying.  
Cliff went to Europe and never returned. We're never going to see him again...


	16. The one that’s lonely and has writer’s block

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Sit down, got another letter to write,  
>  think hard, gotta get a letter just right.  
> Little ringin' on the telephone oh no,  
> gotta write another letter!"_  
> -"Got the Time", Anthrax (originally from Joe Jackson)

_September 30, 1986_.

James' words have been haunting me non-stop since that night. It also doesn’t help matters that he called again the next day to tell us that, because of this, most of the tour is canceled for the time being and they’re coming home.

That is until they can find out a replacement for the bass position.

I talked to Clara about it yesterday when I went over to their house to see if Ceecee was handling the news about Cliff well. And Clara, who was sitting on the front porch right then with her black shades over her face and taking a break from painting, told me that his words could've been from the spur of the moment.

"He probably just got to a phone," she suggested, holding her cane right in between her legs. “And maybe—since it sounds as though it just happened when he called you—he wanted to tell you as like a ‘fear of God’ got put into him. That’s just my guess. He might love you, though.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it, though,” I confessed to her.

“Hey, you know, if it makes you feel better—I can’t help but think if that was either Frankie or Charlie. If either of them got thrown from the bus as it fell down on them and crushed them to death.”

“It probably happened right after I got off the phone with Joey.”

“So you can’t help but wonder if that could’ve been him, too.”

“Right. Anthrax could’ve been right behind Metallica’s bus for all I know...”

Meanwhile, at the moment I have an essay to write but I don’t know where to begin with it. So here I am, writing in my journal again. I have this weird inclination within me to cut again, but I just can’t.

I’m gonna call Joey again. I need to talk to him. He worries about me getting murdered; I worry about him dying in a road accident.

.

.

.

I just got off the phone with him, and—

Quite the interesting conversation I had with him in the past two hours. It helps that I’m alone again. His words are so clear and crisp in my mind.

I went into the kitchen initially for the phone up on the wall and dialed his number. I waited for a few seconds until he answered, and I knew he was tired by the break in his voice. Or perhaps he had been grieving Cliff the whole way home, it was hard to tell.

“You know what’s really fucked up about it with me is I’ve really been getting to know Metallica, too,” he explained.

“I can’t help but think that I’m never going to see him again,” I told him.

“Oh I know! I was talking to Frankie on the flight home and he told me it’s gonna be a while before he gets his head around it. I mean, really, to think he was just here. He was just here with us and that shit happened...”

“James told me Cliff was ejected right as it came down on him.”

“That’s what Lars told me, too. Kirk told me they drew—cards, I think? To see who would sleep up there on the ride down—we were going to Copenhagen next, where Lars is from. I guess Cliff drew the short one.”

“Ceecee’s just—she’s an absolute wreck right now.”

“Oh, I bet. Frankie and Charlie were both in tears on the way home. Scott, Danny, and I were all dead silent. When we got to the airport, our manager Jonny told the five of us to go home and hug our parents.”

“And that’s what you did?” The first time I smiled right then,

“Yeah, I just got home from their place in this little town just south of me called Minetto and told them what happened. My mom gave me the biggest hug around my waist and my dad told me to stay the night. So that’s what I did yesterday. And I’m glad you called when you did because I was just about to get something to eat. Let’s see, you’re three hours behind me—being over in Europe royally fucked up my internal clock so the time’s throwing me a bit. What’cha doin’ right now?”

“Oh, just hanging out. I have writer’s block, so it’s unknown if I can write another song pretty soon for you guys.” I debated whether I wanted to tell him I’m going to school or not given he worries about me.

“You know, I’ve been thinking—if and when we head out on the road again—we should find a way to take you ladies with us. It’d get you the hell away from the King of Hearts, that’s for sure.”

“I’m also feeling kinda lonely,” I confessed. “Ceecee’s been so despondent the past couple of days and Clara’s been up to her eyeballs in art making.”

“She still wanna make something for me?”

“She sure does! But I don’t know if she’s started on it yet, though, and she won’t tell me. She might wanna make it a surprise for all of us.”

I heard him take a seat on something rickety, like an old wooden chair. “For all I know,” I began again, “she might wanna a photo of you, though.”

“I was never much of a model, though.”

“Seriously? You’d make a great male model.”

“With all this hair, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you can do some convincing a la your voice so you can keep your long luxurious curls.”

“Luxurious?” That brought a chuckle out of him.

“Luxurious, lush, flowing... whatever you want.”

“I should pose like the statue of David. I am skinny enough and I am Italian after all.”

“With your clothes off?”

“Maybe. Unless she wants me to keep ‘em on, then—eh, you never know. Most of my shirts in my closet are belly shirts after all.”

“Wear something slinky for her, maybe?”

“Unless she asks me to strip naked and spread my butt apart.”

“Or I ask you to.”

“What!”

And then I realized what I just said. I clasped a hand over my mouth. I felt my face grow warm, and I was unsure if it was from what I said or the thought of him posing naked for Clara.

“Wait a minute—“ he stammered out. “What did I say?”

“Something about getting naked and spreading your butt apart?”

“That’s what I thought... I can’t believe I just said that, too.”

“I kinda can?” I admitted to him.

“Helps that you threw in that bit about asking me to, too.” He started laughing right then.

“I didn’t even realize I said it like that, either. Me asking you to get naked.”

“Get naked and—maybe—fuck around a bit?”

“What’re you saying?”

“Well, you know—you ask me to get—“ He cleared his throat. “—naked and show myself to you and one of your best friends, but show myself to you first.”

“Are you—?”

“Maybe. Unless you want me to.”

“But we’re over the phone, though.”

“So? I got to sing to you over the phone. Why can’t we do—“

“Do this?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat again. “I’ve got time, you know.”

“I do, too.”

“I love how we’re sad at first and then almost out of the blue, we start talking about sex,” he laughed. And I laughed with him for a moment before speaking again.

“Well, I should tell you this, Joseph,” I began again, “—since you wrote to me, and the King of Hearts has only gotten more and more notorious with time—the feeling is intense right now. And when there’s intensity surrounding a relationship, it only brings them closer together.”

“And?”

“And? Well—I have to—“ I hesitated.

“What?”

I swallowed. I didn’t want to say it to him, but I had already crossed the threshold.

“Wha-a-a-at!” I heard him stamp his feet on his end.

“I have to confess it’s kind of—“

“Kind of? Yes?”

“—hot.”

“Oh, is it now?”

“Yeah. It’s very hot. The feeling of death hanging over us all—a pervading feeling of having my heart mutilated against my broken rib bones, hearing the news of one of your own having gone down to his gruesome demise... I can’t help but feel... aroused, I would say?”

“God, you speak so poetically. I couldn’t have said it any better to be honest.”

“With that velvet tongue?”

“The same velvet tongue that wants to taste every bit of your coochie?”

“You have to earn it,” I scolded him.

“What must I do to earn it?”

“Get naked. Come on, big boy.”

“My pants are gettin’ a little tight after all...”

“Oh my God, you sexy, sexy man.”

“I try my best.”

“You do wonderful, big boy.”

“I like how you call me big boy.”

“‘Cause you’re a big boy.”

“I ain’t that big—oh, you mean that! Well, how would you know? You’ve never seen me like that.” I heard something rustle which was then followed by something, probably his pants, unzipping.

“I kinda wanna find out,” I confessed.

“Well, you’re gonna haveta be patient, doll.”

“And you’re still gonna have to earn it.”

“Ehhhh, you caught me. I just unzipped my pants. I am laying my back, though.”

“Laying on your back so I can do a number on your cock, ya bad boy?”

“You wanna take my picture or ring my bell?”

“Both. Again. You gotta earn it. Bad boy.”

I took a seat at the kitchen table because I got tired of standing up there with my shoulder against the wall.

“You know, I took a shower a little while ago while Clara was over and she almost walked in on me.”

“Oh my God really?”

“Yeah.”

“Ohhhhh so you wanna picture me naked, you want me to do the same for you?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, I’m totally picturing the water pouring all over your naked body. All wet—and with nowhere to go except right over my erection.”

“If your erection was in there with me, I’d slap it to the side. I’m tryin’ to wash myself, ya bad boy.”

“Yeah, but if I join you, it saves water, though. It’d wash away our cum while we’re there.”

“Maybe yours.”

“Alright, you know what? Just for that, I oughta spank you. I oughta get you in the shower with your pants still on and spank you so that your wet pants will make your ass cheeks more red than your pussy.”

(Charlotte’s note:...damn.)

“You wish,” I teased him. “Not if I smack your cock so hard it’ll catch you by surprise and that’ll leave you nowhere to go but into the shower with me. Your black curls will get all wet but it’s all for the better ‘cause I’m gonna make you use that velvet tongue of yours on my pussy and then in my nipples. And I’m gonna keep slapping your cock until I say you’re good for a round on the floor.”

(Charlotte’s note: ...DAMN.)

“Wow. Maybe I oughta... consider taking a picture of myself for Clara and see where we go from there.”

“You go right ahead, big boy.”

“You know what? If the tour doesn’t resume for a few months—and since my birthday is on the thirteenth—we oughta fly out and visit you ladies.”

“You just wanna make this real.”

“Unless you want to. You’d be a little less lonely.”

“True. And maybe I wanna make it real, too.”

“Alright. So next time we see each other—me and Anthrax with you, Ceecee, and Clara—I’m bringing one thing for Clara—oh, but wait.”

“What?”

“It wouldn’t work. She’s blind, remember?”

“Oh right! Duh! But I admit that sometimes I forget she’s totally blind. Maybe she can feel you like she did with Frankie and Charlie.”

“Or maybe you wanna feel me. But that’s a whole other can of worms, doll face.”

“Just a sign that you wanna play out this whole thing with me, though.”

“Of course. We’ll play it by ear and see where it goes from here. My belly’s rumbling so—I’m gonna go eat something.”

“Not like you wanna eat me?”

“Nah, you’re a whole meal altogether.”

I will give Joey this: my writer’s block is gone now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter was inspired by a true event that happened to me, and that’s all I’m gonna say about it 😉


	17. The one that's told to stay home

"' _He rose from the shattered windows  
and fell out to the moonlight.   
His bones ground away to bring forth   
the voice of a thousand weeping natives,   
and they froze him in time because of it._

 _He was laughed at for his feathers,  
and his cold stone face,   
and the black holes in his head   
staring into infinity, and thus sent back   
into exile for all of the broken ice_.

 _The trail of tears is lonely for the man in black,  
and the shrubs along the way all but   
choked the ones who locked the door_.

 _The deadly nightshade sprouted out of the cold earth  
so he could inject his venom and   
run forth the shore of the city by the lake;   
he goes forth to thrash and so to feel his own rhythm.   
He rides in silence but he is the one,   
the voice_.'  
-'The Man in Black (An Ode to Joey)'"

I was never much of a poet, and in fact, the more I look on at the lyrics of our song "Black Moon", the more I wish I could go back and change it all. I think it has to do with the fact that Cliff is gone now and there's no way he's going to hear it again with Metallica and Anthrax there with me.  
I tried to describe Joey to Clara the other day seeing as he called again last night to tell me there's a rather large blizzard afflicting upstate New York at the moment, and his parents told him to stay home until the storm's passing. Mom also told me to come right home after school given another body was found over on Vashon Island. Same fashion: heart removed through a perfectly sliced hole in the chest, such that no rib bones had been shattered into splinters, and the victim this time was a dance teacher.  
I dared not venture into that similar talk with him again given Clara herself was sitting right there at the table next to me. But his words still haunt me. I wonder at all if that counted as a first time with him.  
And I can't help but think of James and if a little loving on my part for him could help him soothe over the pain of losing his friend. I will give him all the time in the world in order to heal: he's got time. They all have got time.  
I took out her thin pencil of hard graphite from her black pencil box and, once I handed it to her, I described his hair and his features to her in full detail. And by the power of her advanced sense of touch, she managed to put down a sketch on her pad of fine drawing paper, a sketch that carries his likeness, all the way down to his slender build and his lanky fingers.  
"Very threadbare," she told me as she kept her hard graphite upon the side of the paper to keep it out of the way, "I can't even see him and I can tell he's very bare and stark, almost gaunt. But handsome, though."  
"He is very handsome," I replied to her as I leaned back in my chair. "How's Ceecee doing, by the way?"  
"She's doing a lot better," she answered as she stared off at the entrance of the kitchen. "She and Lars talked over the phone—he's actually down in Portland right now, if you can believe that—and I guess they're scrambling like all hell to find their new bass player. She told me it was a relief to hear his voice for the first time in a while, y'know?"  
"Oh, yeah."  
"How's James doing?" She turned her head a bit into my direction. Her closed eyes appeared so serene and pleasant at their smoothness. "Do you know at all?"  
"Well, I thought I'd give him time before I reach out to him again, but I might do it again soon."  
"You should." She nodded her head and moved her hand back towards the edge of the table, away from her sketch pad. I glanced down to her faint hard pencil scrawls, the groundwork of her drawing of Joey. "If not write another letter, you should at least call him. And, when's Joey's birthday again?"  
"The thirteenth."  
"The thirteenth, okay. I ask you that so—you know—I can get to work on it." She cleared her throat. "You said he's Indian?"  
"Native American Indian, yeah. That and Italian."  
"Okay, so... and upstate New York, that's... Oneida, Onondaga, and Iroquois country. Wow." Keeping her eyes closed, she raised her eyebrows in amazement at that. "What do you wanna bet he'll give you something in return, like a dream catcher or some incense or something?"  
She cracked me a smile when she said that.  
"I think it's a little soon to be making guesses like that, Clare," I assured her.  
"Not necessarily. It sounds like he's got a little crush you, Chris, babe. I mean, think about it: he's calling you and he told you upfront that he's worried about you with that damn serial killer going around."  
"James likes me, too. At least, I think he does." I dared not tell her about what James had said to me that night over the phone.  
"Well, if he does, it'll be obvious." She showed the tip of her tongue as she wet her lips and cleared her throat again. "I might not be able to witness body language like shy smiles or touching of the arm, but I can hear things like voice inflections and the phone ringing. And I'm gonna tell you this right now, just from my own auditory observation: it sounds like Joey might like you more than James likes you. But reach out to them again. Reach out to James again. Check up on him, because you never know: he might wanna hear your voice again. Now—is my big fat draughting pencil right next to you? The one that I need either you or Cees to whittle down for me?"  
I looked down at the inside of the box to find that wide wooden pencil right on top of the pile.  
"Yeah, it's right here," I handed it to her.  
"Now, let's see—" She tapped on the paper with her fingertips and then kept them there for a second. "There's the top of his head..."  
I hung there with her and watched her draw until it was done and she signed her name at the bottom. To think Clara is totally blind and she can draw better than most people with their sight still intact.  
"It's like I'm feeling him," she said at one point, "I'm feeling his curls and his skin—and his rhythm. You know how the—I wanna call them 'indigenous' souls, because they were here first—how they kinda have that rhythm to them? That pulse? Do you know what I'm talking about?"  
"Like all the tribal dances and ceremonies and everything?"  
"Yes. Yes! And—you know, you guys—you and Ceecee, call yourselves 'Black Moon'. The moon in Native American lore signifies protection. The black moon is like another name for the new moon, because during the new moon the night is in full swing. And I know this because one of the first books I ever had, one with braille mind you, was on all about indigenous culture."  
Come to think of it, I think I recall seeing that book at their house one time, but I never knew what it was because of the braille.   
"So—and this is just a guess, I can't see inside of his head, but I feel he might feel protected by you. Not just the fact you're a couple of rocker chicks, but he sees that name 'Black Moon' and feels protected by the darkness."  
And it was like an epiphany right then. Of course!  
When she was done, with care, she scrawled her name at the very bottom of the paper.  
"Shall I send this to him?" And right as I said that, it started to rain.  
"From the darkness of Seattle with love," she replied with a smile upon her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Man in Black", a poem by yours truly


	18. The second letter to James

James-

I wanted to write to you again to tell you that you have been on my mind for the past few days, and I wanted to tell you that it's alright if you want to take your time on this whole thing. I don't want to come off as obsessive or freaky or anything like that. But I want to come clean with you even as the feeling of death is hanging over both of our heads.  
I can't seem to shake those words out of my head, where on the night after the news of Cliff had gotten out, you said that to me. And, I get it if you said it in the spur of the moment (Clara thinks you did, but she wasn't the one on the phone with you).  
But at the same time, I get it if you said it and meant it.  
Your first letter back to me absolutely touched me. I reread it last night and I ran my fingers down the front of the paper as if I was stroking you.  
And you know, I feel a little less alone now that I'm giving it some more thought.  
I don't want to lose you.  
Take your time to write back or to call me. There's no rush, but when you feel it appropriate, know that I'll be waiting for you.

All my love,  
Chris


	19. The second letter to Joey

Joey-

First of all, happiest of birthdays to you!! Mom and I are baking a cake on the day of in your honor because it's all we can do at the moment.  
Second, in the envelope is Clara's drawing to you. It's probably her best work yet, and perhaps my favorite that she's done by far. I put it a page protector so the graphite doesn't smear so be careful when you take it out and put it up on display for the world to see.  
Third, I can't stop thinking about that... interesting conversation you and I had last week. Needless to say, it was amazing.  
Like I was actually experiencing it on my part!  
I thought about it last night, just how your voice got all soft and silky when you said all of those things in my ear. I also can't stop thinking about you singing for me. I'll admit it: you've got a very sexy voice. Very erotic and soothing. I want you to do things with that voice for me. That velvet tongue of yours.  
Also, and you read this from me:  
what do I have to do to get you here with me, right next to me even with the King of Hearts roaming around with a sharp blade in one hand? What do I have to do to coax you back over to the West Coast?  
Take your time, baby, at least until the snow clears on your end.

Kisses,  
Chris


	20. The one that fell down the stairs

_October 14, 1986_.

I hope Joey had a good birthday yesterday. I thought about him all day yesterday and I wonder if he received that drawing we sent to him. I have an inclination to call him up and ask him about it, but at the same time, I don't want to rush things.  
I can't stop thinking about him, though. Like I wonder how he's doing and if he's warm enough in his place. Mom told me Upstate New York, especially where he lives, gets bitterly cold this time of year because of the lake effect from Lake Ontario combined with the proximity of the Canadian Shield. I just think of his little body, his slender little body, all wrapped up blankets in attempt to keep warm.  
I just... think of his body. Pressed right up next to me: his skin so soft and his hair even softer.  
I was eating a slice of the cake we had baked yesterday and I had this itch to share some of it with him. Giving him a couple of bites, maybe letting him lick some frosting off of my fingers when Mom's not looking.  
Ceecee and I walked past this building yesterday on the way home from school, and there was a sign in the window reading: "coming soon: Smell the Magic" and then there were some other things underneath it talking about baked goods and whatnot. I couldn't help but think if his mom baked him a cake yesterday.  
I also think of James, too. I imagine San Francisco being similar to here, maybe a bit warmer, but I picture him walking alone somewhere in the heart of downtown and missing Cliff. It's been two weeks and I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact I'll never see Cliff again. But James' voice still haunts me and I do hope my letter to him was enough to open the door for him. He doesn't have much of a family except for Lars and Kirk, and whoever this Dave guy is, so I hope I can break on through to him with my words. If not, well, at least I gave it a shot.  
Those three words he said to me on that night have seared their way into my mind, so it only makes sense to coax a reaction out of him.  
Oddly enough... there was another murder yesterday.   
This time around, they found the body right on the sidewalk, right in front of our house.  
Clara actually found it: she was walking along the sidewalk with her cane jutting out in front of her and she almost tripped over it. But she tapped on the side of the knee and she realized it was a human. She hurried to our front step and asked Mom if I was alright.  
"Yeah, I'm right here," I told her as I came around the corner from the kitchen.  
This woman was apparently killed just this morning, and right outside of the house. She was a regular person, a plain old redheaded lady wearing an apron and a pair of gloves like she was on her way to work at a bakery of sort. Her throat had been slit this time but her heart was in fact missing: removed clean right out of her chest. The hole was perfect and crisp, the size of a fist, like he had reached into her chest and tore it right out of her while she bled to death.  
That woman bled to death on the sidewalk right in front of our house. A different type of woman, but they figure it was the King of Hearts no matter who it was laying there on the ground. Mom scribbled down some more notes on her notepad as she stood right next to me there before the front window.  
I began to wonder if Dad knows about all of this since he and Mom don't exactly communicate all that often. He should probably know that I could wake up dead one day, that I could wake up in the same condition as these poor women who keep dropping like bloody flies.  
One thing remains for certain and that's her telling me to keep the doors locked round the clock now.  
Earlier, I peered out of the window at the sight of the yellow police tape wrapped around the posts of the front gate to our yard. I had a feeling I didn't want to know. I still have this feeling within me. The fact the forensic people didn't bother to mop up some more of the blood on the sidewalk is equally as bone-chilling. The fact our front walkway is closed off indefinitely means we have to go around back just to even so much as reach the street.  
I mention this because Clara fell down the stairs, the stairs on the back step heading out to the backyard. She's not acquainted with that direction and so even though she tapped her cane on the edges of the back door, she still took too much of a step off of the wood and fell ass over teakettle onto the grass.  
Mom and I just returned from the emergency room and from their house. The only thing that creeps me out more than the possibility of ending up in a body bag and then a morgue without saying good-bye to Dad, or to Joey and James, is the possibility of ending up in a place filled with chemicals and all manner of viruses and bacteria without telling Dad, or Joey and James. I can't seem to rid that overly clean smell of the hospital from my clothes, and we merely walked into a nurse's office to ensure Clara didn't break anything: she just took a tumble and scuffed up her shades and jerked her ankle a little too far back, and that's about it.  
There was an elderly man across the waiting room from us who looked like he was about ready to die right there, and even now I can't help but feel with him.  
Here I am with my heart split into two right out of my chest for two men, two potential kings of my heart, and staring at my own death right in the face.  
On the other hand, Clara falling down is a sign that I need to relax. That we all need to relax. We're all so on edge right now with all of the death and destruction around us that it's only logical that we begin to release it in the most primal way possible.

( _Charlotte's note: sex? Or art? Or both?_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've often equated making art as akin to making love. You're "feeling" the subject, giving him/her/it more life than it already has, and all the while, you're awakening a part of you that you swore never existed before 😉😘


	21. The second letter from Joey

_(Charlotte’s note: oh, another beautiful letter! He sure knows how to do it all. This one is of softer, lighter parchment and smells not just of incense but vanilla, too. Soft and tender, just like him. I have always loved a sensual man_.)

Chris—

Christina.

“La Luna Bella,” as we say back in the home country.

First of all, let me thank you for writing again. It’s always fan-flipping-tastic to see your penmanship again in my mailbox. My heart started pounding in my chest when I saw the stamp and I recognized the Seattle address.

Second, why, yes! I had a marvelous birthday and it only got better with that drawing in it. I almost didn’t wanna take it out of the page protector because I knew I would totally fuck it up with my butter fingers. I ate so much cake today... I feel like I’m about ready to roll on the floor with my pants undone, I’m so full.

Third... about that phone call...

It’s good to know I wasn’t the only one fully aroused by that. After we got off the phone, I stripped down and whacked off so hard. I feel aroused by it right now thinking about that night. The butterflies are in my stomach and I feel my dick filling out between my thighs.

I’m just laying here on the warm carpet with my jeans unbuttoned and my shirt lifted up so the heater’s blowing right onto my belly button. I’m laying here writing this to you. I’m feeling soft. I feel alive. Death is around us and yet I have never felt more alive at the moment.

I am sending you a dream catcher for good luck and to chase the nightmares away. You need something, a little piece of me to help you sleep better at night. Like I said, I worry about you and I want you to sleep well, and the dream catcher always helps me. Hang it up over your bed so they’ll float up and float away with the morning breeze. It’ll chase them away so you can dream of me.

Do you dream of me? It’s okay if you don’t. But this should help and it’s all I can do at the moment except think of you and my hand.

All my of love,

Joey


	22. The one with the ace of spades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Be what you want, nothing will stand in your way.  
>  Be what you can: you're on your way to perfection."_  
> -"Perfection", Joey Belladonna
> 
>  _“Fifteen years in the academy,  
>  he was like no cadet they'd ever seen.  
> A man so hard, his veins bleed ice,  
> and when he speaks he never says it twice.  
> They call him Judge, his last name is Dredd.”_  
> -“I Am the Law”, Anthrax

_October 21, 1986_.

The fact Joey wrote back as fast as he did is astounding. I hung up the dream catcher he had sent me right over the headboard of my bed and since doing so, my dreams have been getting calmer and quieter. Perhaps he was right in the wind sweeping my nightmares away upon the sunrise. Perhaps Clara was right to say he likes me.

Ceecee and I were listening to Motörhead on the way to school just earlier today: I guess they influence each Metallica as well as Anthrax. I can foresee the two of us doing that song “Ace of Spades” on our acoustic guitars. Might be a bit tricky but I can feel it. I can feel it in my fingertips, and I could feel it when we arrived at school. The next time we see the boys, we’re doing it.

She recently received a magazine in the mail that talks more about their background—quite the scene they have back East! Frankie is standing in for a guy named Dan Lilker, who’s now bassist for Nuclear Assault, while Danny came to Anthrax from Overkill. When they picked up Joey, he was singing way the hell upstate in a cover band called Bible Black. There’s also Whiplash, formed by three guys named Tony, and Toxik, from nearby Peekskill. Meanwhile, on Metallica’s front, Kirk hails from Exodus, which was described as like their next door neighbors along with Dark Angel. Their old guitarist Dave Mustaine now has his own band down in Los Angeles, Megadeth. Anthrax’s new album, which they’re calling “Among the Living” was recorded in stints over this past year, namely over in the Bahamas only because of something Scott said. Something about Iron Maiden or something, it didn’t exactly go into it right away. At least, not from what we found when she showed it to me again when we met up for lunch again today.

“I guess they’re dedicating that album to Cliff,” she told me as she slipped it back into her book bag. “Like Scott and Charlie just announced it and the press was on it like flies on shit.”

“Probably because Cliff just died,” I concluded.

“Right! I guess the funeral was pretty emotional, too. Frankie and Kirk both were in tears the whole time.”

“I’ll have to call James or Joey tonight,” I concluded, taking a sip of coffee. A couple of people had congregated around the window behind us, but neither of us paid any attention to them.

“Why not call both?” she suggested.

“The last two times I tried calling James he didn’t pick up. And the last time I called Joey—“ I glanced behind me to the people behind us and I knew we were alone right then. I returned to her to find she raised her eyebrows at me in inquisition.

“The last time I called Joey—“

“Yes?” she asked me in a low voice.

“Can you keep this a secret? Like, don’t tell Clara this for me.”

“Sure, sure.” She nodded her head at me.

“The last time I called Joey... we had phone sex.”

She gasped at me; I turned back around to make sure no one overheard. Everyone milled amongst themselves: the people near the window seemed to keep to themselves. I returned to her and the excited look upon her face.

“Chris, you little _vixen_!” she quipped in a hushed voice. “How was it?”

“It was engrossing. Like the whole entire time, we were doing that with one another, I could just picture him next to me in bed. You know that dream catcher that’s in my room right now?”

“Yeah? He sent that to you?”

“He sure did! He told me it’ll take the bad dreams away.”

“Aw! He likes you!”

“Or he was just doing it because he’s worried about me,” I suggested.

“Yeah, but I would think that’s part of it, though,” she pointed out. “Saying he’s worried about you means he doesn’t wanna lose you—“

But then the warm look upon her face disappeared once the word left her lips.

“What’s the matter?” I asked her.

“What’s going on over here?” She gestured to the people over by the window, as more and more joined in. A few of them began talking with one another about it: one of them mentioned my name. I turned my head for a look at the window myself.

“I dunno,” I said, “let’s check it out, shall we?”

We stood to our feet and made our way over to them to see what was the matter. I peered over the shoulder of one boy to see some kind of black paint on the glass. Ceecee tapped on my shoulder to grab my attention: I followed her around the crowd towards the edge of the room. I noticed red paint in conjunction with the black.

“It’s a heart,” she described it. But I took a second look at it, and I noticed a streak over the tops of this black heart.

“It’s a spade,” I corrected her.

And then I noticed mine and Ceecee’s names written inside of the heart: the red paint oozed down the glass in such a way that it resembled blood. Maybe it was blood, I don’t know.

But she led me closer to it, past some more chatter about this mark here in the glass, and underneath our names, I find the words:

**BLACK MOON ANTHRAX AND METALLICA TOGETHER IN DEATH**

**HEARTS WILL BURN ON ICE**

“What the hell?” I heard her mutter to herself. I didn’t know what to say or think right then, and I still don’t know how to react to that.

Actually, I take that back, I do in fact have one way to react to that, and I said it to Ceecee once we returned to the table to fetch our things and head on over to our classes:

“If something was to happen to Joey or James, I'd kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

“Does that include me?” she asked me.

“Unless you’re willing to die with me. But if I’m being targeted, I wouldn’t wanna stick around for a second longer.”

“Actually resort to death, though, Chris?” But I never responded to her, because she should know that I’m serious. If that Ace of Spades served as a warning, we both should take it seriously. I know Mom is.


	23. The second letter from James

( _Charlotte's note: oh, wow, he really spruced this one up this time around. It's not like Joey's letters, which I could prop up in a room that smells of some kind of funk, but he has clearly gone out of his way to make use of lovelier paper and nice red ink. There is a fair share of nice stationary places down in San Francisco - he clearly had a change of heart after her second one to him. Perhaps the accident and his declaration to her over the phone had something to do with it?_ )

Christina-

When I got your next letter, I didn't hesitate to begin writing my next to you. I'm just gonna keep this brief, though, because I have to admit that losing Cliff sucked the life right out of me.  
It's funny that you mention the feeling of death around you and Ceecee and Clara at the moment because I feel like death at the moment. I lost my friend, a guy whom I felt would go onto great things with me, Lars, and Kirk (also, if and when you get the chance, tell Ceecee that Kirk wants to start writing letters to her, too). I feel like I could've done something, like I could've saved him somehow. I could've picked him out of that bunker and told him to sleep on the one between me and Lars, but what was I gonna do with the whole road covered in black ice?  
And yet, I also feel with you in that it could've been either of us.  
Forgive me if what I said over the phone was in fact too much, but make no mistake, though: I'm starting to like you. Maybe I did "blurt it out" in the spur of the moment but there's no denying how I feel, though.  
I like you. I love you.  
I don't know how Joey feels about you but whatever: all that should matter is that **I** like you.  
After the bus accident, and they cleared out the scene, I went over to the ditch and found Cliff's skull ring laying there in the dark earth. I picked it up and put it on, sort of as a memento (so when we see each other again, you'll know where it came from).  
A moment of remembrance on Cliff's part as well as a declaration of "memento mori", a reminder that we're not safe in this business and that any one of us could die before we become like Icarus and burn up in the sun the natural way. We're not safe in this business so it only makes sense for all of us to stick together. It only makes sense, to me anyway, for all of us to declare love to one another before the black ice swallows us whole again.  
And I mention that because Lars and I were talking just yesterday: we would love to see Black Moon go on the road. You girls have some power to you, just between the two of you, even without a drummer.  
Kirk suggested you come on tour with us and the Anthrax boys by the time we find our new man in the rhythm section, but the three of us are gonna have to do some more talking if that becomes the case. And if it does, we have to get you ladies on the phone with someone.  
If nothing, you can always say you know the bunch of us and see where it goes from there.  
So much for keeping this brief. Oh, well. I just haven't really had anyone to speak to about it: Lars and Kirk are as distraught as I am and we're up to our eyeballs in trying to find a new bassist at the moment (our label's also pushing us to make a new album once we have him... or her).  
I said what I said and I hope it all makes sense.  
Again, forgive me if it was too much on that night after, but there's no denying my feelings.

Give Ceecee, Clara, and your mom a hug for me,  
James


	24. The one with masks and lost hearts

_October 31, 1986_.

I have to confess something again, and it involves that razor blade again, but this time around, I didn't sink it into my skin again. No, instead, I took that razor blade I used to cut myself with to cut up some tissue paper to help Mom and Ceecee make some masks for the four of us at a Halloween party, which we got back from not even an hour ago. I didn't tell them about the razor blade and I dared not tell Mom about my letters to and fro Joey and James. She has enough to worry about, especially losing me to a serial killer.  
"I mean, at this point, the forensics office is utterly swamped at this point," she confessed to me yesterday as we were shopping around for crafting materials to make our masks.  
"So I imagine your own office getting slammed, too," I followed along.  
"Exactly! Right! And something I've learned right away, after I began logging these killings is serial murders don't happen at random. There has to be some kind of motivation. There has to be a profile of some sort. So if our killer is targeting young blonde women as well as young redheaded women, that is part of the profile, not just of his but of the victims as well. You and Ceecee fit the profile of the victim, which is why at the Halloween party tomorrow, I'm going to ask Clara to join me in chaperoning. I know you two are old enough to attend by yourselves, but not when you both fit the victim profile. That's something else I've noticed about our killer is he seems to think ahead, which is why Clara found that body outside of our house. It's like he's trying to send us warnings of what's to come for either you or Ceecee."  
Add to this, with all of these murders going on, it's easy to see why Mom and her colleagues are all having difficulty trying to put all of this together, like the King of Hearts knows how to think ahead of the rest of us. He's targeting not just my lookalikes but Ceecee's as well. It's almost as if I'm being profiled by someone I've never met, and they're playing off of my fear even without having met me.  
For all we know, and for all Mom knows as well, the King of Hearts may not even be human.  
I just keep thinking of how he kills: strangulation followed by the perfect, clean removal of the heart while leaving their bodies to waste.  
Indeed, once we began making the masks that evening with Ceecee, and I was using the razor blade, I couldn't help but think of blood. My own blood. Her blood.  
Our blood spilled upon these small masks which will go hand in hand with our costumes for the evening: I went as "the chanteuse", the mysterious, melancholic lounge singer in a glamorous, sparkling black dress with a pencil skirt and a plunging neckline. My mask was a plain black Mardi Gras mask with lines of silver glitter along the rim and some red blotches on the nose to make it look like I had gotten my ass whooped.   
I wished Joey and James were there to see me in that dress because I know the former would have wanted to actually make love to me, while the latter would have wanted to profess his love to me over and over again.  
Ceecee, meanwhile, went as a dead flapper from the Roaring Twenties, complete with the cloche hat and silky evening gloves, and a phony butcher knife jutting out from her back. Her mask was plain white so she dribbled red paint over it to make it look like spattered blood.  
One would think it was callous, even ridiculous, of us to go as such ghoulish figures but we needed a release of sorts. It's Halloween, the night in which we had to protect ourselves from the ghoul that has the potential to kill the both of us. We needed to show that we are not afraid of death no matter how horrific and bloody it might seem.  
The whole time we were compiling our costumes, I kept thinking about those two men. Joey wants me in a fleshly manner while James wants it through the heart.  
I also have to confess that when I read James' recent letter, I wanted to cry.  
Too much work going on with them and not enough alone time. Too much red tape. Too much brick and mortar. I'm his only way out.  
I hope I'm not his sole way out and that he can write lyrics to act as a catharsis. I hope that Anthrax's new album will serve the same purpose on their end as well.  
Another thing that keeps coming back to me is the obvious: James wants us to tour. And maybe, yes, it can in fact get us away from Seattle and the King of Hearts for a while. Granted, Mom would be alone for some time but I foresee it being a win-win should the deal come through. That is, if it does come through. I don't know if James or Lars will call me or Ceecee at some point, but we can hope that it will in fact happen.  
Earlier this afternoon, Ceecee and I dressed in our full costumes with the masks over our faces. I was going to bring my guitar with me, but I decided not to: if only I had a fake microphone, though. I had to use my hairbrush.   
Clara, meanwhile, went as a ghost bride of sorts: she wore her grandmother's old lacy, faded, filmy wedding dress that was a little big so the skirt and the sleeves drifted off of her like the tatters of an undead entity; there was a small monarch butterfly on the front of the bodice. Her pitch black shades only made her look even more ghostly. Mom, meanwhile, dressed in an old red blazer and her mask donned with red and yellow feathers, golden glitter, and red and yellow puff balls on the side. The red and yellow and the butterfly on Clara's dress both made me think of Joey.  
Just two nights ago, Clara and I were talking about that book on Native Americans again and there was one good long passage about butterflies in there.  
"Butterflies symbolize longevity, especially for the Iroquois," she told me as she ran her fingers over the braille perforating the page. "Combine that with what I've told you about the moon and Joey's further in good hands with you."  
Maybe he is, but as we were walking to the party, when we were a block away, I noticed something off about our surroundings. Indeed, Mom stopped us as we reached the crosswalk for her to look right across the intersection. Once we realized we were the only people on the street, she guided us across the pavement.  
Clara's cane clanking on the blacktop was the only sound heard aside from my own hammering heartbeat.  
"Oh my God," Mom gasped and stopped us right there on the pavement, right before we reached the curb. She then turned to me with a worried look upon her face.  
"Go to the party and call the police," she ordered us. "I'll be right there with you."  
There on the sidewalk lay something. Something covered with crumpled newspapers.  
By the light of the fading sun, I could see the newspapers were bloodied, soaked all the way through with fresh red blood. It had just happened.  
The heart was missing.  
But right atop the woman's arm was in fact...  
...a King of Hearts.

I not only had to call the fuzz but I had to get on the phone with Joey and James, too. And Ceecee had to call Kirk, and Clara on the phone to Frankie and Charlie.


	25. The one with biscuits and late night coffee

_October 31/November 1, 1986 (I think? The power's out so I can't see the time with this cheap little flashlight)_.

I've been so on edge as of late that I almost forgot about our evening at Biscuit Bitch after the Halloween party, which had been cut short by about an hour and a half because of the murder nearby. Afterwards, Mom took us into town for something of a light dinner. I dared not tell her about my conversation with both Joey and James there on the little phone on the side table.  
  
Joey's frightened voice still rings through my mind. I asked him to sing for me but he could scarcely muster the words for me, even there as I had ducked around the corner, still wrapped in my costume and with the partygoers within earshot.

"Joey," I told him in a gentle voice, "I know you're scared. But don't be. Please. Don't be afraid, baby."

“I wanna be near you again,” he begged me in a delicate whimper of a voice, “please, Chris. I crave it. I need to feel your love. Your arms around me and holding me. God, please. Before you die.”

I thought about what James had told me in his last letter in how he doesn’t care what Joey thinks or feels with me. But to hear him, the man whom I had had phone sex with, be reduced to a blithering mess, brought me back into the corner. The eight ball pushed me into the corner, and I needed to slide out from behind it to give him what his body so wishes.

But then, after I got off the phone with him, I wondered what I would say to Mom if James and Lars wants Ceecee and me to tour with them. If anything, I kept that within mind as we had crispy chocolate biscottis and fresh scones to go with our cups of coffee. It was almost nine o’clock at that point, but neither of us minded, especially when it started raining.

One thing I envision myself doing is having late night coffee with Joey back upstate. I don’t know why, but the very thought of that lingers within mind. Even better is to have all of us having coffee all together. Either here or upstate is a whole question altogether, but I could picture it happening, as long as the King of Hearts stays away from us.

And we still hadn’t found out what was the meaning of the ace of spades on the window at school.

Ceecee guessed it was a Halloween gimmick but I didn’t think so, especially after I had given it a second look the next day.

“Together in death.” What in the world could it mean? At first I figured it was a misunderstanding on the person’s part, probably because Cliff had died, and they thought of us as bound together by that happening. Or, since we found that card at the latest scene, perhaps it’s a warning. If that’s the case, then something has to give on James and Lars’ end. Either we go on tour with them as Black Moon and escape the possibility of murder, or we don’t and Ceecee and I have to figure a way to avoid getting ourselves killed. 

If we’re also snubbed to go on tour, we’ll have to do a long distance thing with our boys and after hearing Joey’s frightened but lustful pleas over the phone, I don’t feel good about that.

It was a lot to think about over pastry and coffee at such a late hour, but I thought about it. And I continued to think about it even as Mom and I returned to a dark, rain drenched house a little while ago.


	26. The one with Iron Maiden and red Chucks

_November 11, 1986_.

Ceecee and I spent our Veteran’s Day practicing some more songs on our guitars. We still hadn’t heard a word from either James or Lars about the possibility of going on tour with them, and thus the two of us decided it to be a pipe dream. But at the same time, I wondered if they had remembered it at all. It all seemed to happen in a hurry over the phone. They are rising up alongside Anthrax; thus, while Ceecee has her doubts, I still uphold a tiny glimmer of hope for these gentlemen.

The other night, Mom highlighted the fact that the murders have been happening when we least expect them to. Maybe—despite it being rather morbid of me to think this—we can apply this to what we’re waiting for here.

( _Charlotte’s note: sometimes the most morbid and ghastly of things give us the final vein of hope that we need, like the mention of “Anthrax”_ )

We were introduced to Iron Maiden by way of mention in that magazine Ceecee has on hand: the boys are all influenced by them to a degree, so it made sense to the both of us to seek an interest in them. We headed to the record shop to seek out the albums they had on hand.

It was like love at first sight, or rather love at first listen. She and I were mesmerized by them, by their quick pace and loud, brash power. The front man’s voice even kind of reminded me of Joey’s voice, and I wonder if there’s a bit of influence there.

Indeed, after the first few times of listening, Ceecee learned the fingering for the song “Run to the Hills.” I followed along for a bit but she’s the virtuoso: I couldn’t even hardly sing along to it, though. I told her Joey ought to sing to it if and when we saw them again.

There is still no break in the case pertaining to the King of Hearts, but as long as I can play my guitar the best I can and keep singing in my spare time aside from writing for school, I am sure we’ll still be alive.

While we were at the record store, Ceecee and I got Metallica’s last album _Master of Puppets_ , and Anthrax’s album _Spreading the Disease_ while they were still in supply. We both sat there on the carpet of her bedroom with Clara as the music played in unison with the rain on the windowpane. The three of us were in awe at what we heard with both albums.

James has a strong, ferocious snarl of a voice, especially when we played _Master_ after _Spreading_ , so it was quite the contrast to Joey’s soaring operatic singing. But I could tell Clara loved the latter with a passion, as she nodded her head along to it with her eyes snapped shut. She brought her legs in closer to her body: I know for a fact that Frankie and Charlie are going to love her red Chucks once we find another opportunity.

“If I could draw the way this song sounds, I could,” she remarked during “S.S.C./Stand or Fall”. Meanwhile, I crawled inside of Joey’s voice and let him overtake me. His shrieks are clean and yet weirdly sensual, as sexy as any of the words he said to me over the phone. Charlie is formidable as a drummer: they’re all formidable, in fact. All five of them focused on the coalescing of the biggest sound possible.

The last song, “Gung Ho”, made me think of the murders, perhaps more than Metallica’s song “The Thing That Should Not Be”, which made me think about the clean holes in the victims’ chests. The King of Hearts is killing at such a swift pace, accumulating such a large body count, and for what? To scare Ceecee and me? Offing all those blonde women and that one redhead has to be a threat to us, but it makes me wonder who we crossed to have such a vile agenda. Who would try to scare us away from Seattle when we haven’t done anything?

I wonder if that was the intent of the spade on the window at school. He’s trying to scare us... but for what reason is beyond me.

We played “The Thing That Should Not Be” twice because Clara confessed to thinking of the King of Hearts with me.

We also played “Orion” twice because the clerk at the store told us that was Cliff’s masterpiece. Interestingly, when it played the second time, the rain continued down over our heads even harder, like the sky was crying. I had my arm around Ceecee the whole time it played.

“I think I’ll always miss Cliff,” she admitted. “Kirk told me the same when we talked over the phone the other night.”

I thought back to what I told her upon sight of the spade at school.

I still mean it, even as we come closer to the end and further from the possibility of touring with the boys: if something was to happen to James or Joey, I’m done. And I’m putting Ceecee and Clara and Mom on that list, too. If anything happens to the ones I love, Christina Moon is no more.


	27. The one with words left unspoken

_November 21, 1986_.

I awoke this morning to the sound of the phone ringing and the rain pattering on the roof overhead. I swore the ringing would stop, that is until Mom picked up down in the kitchen. I lay there in my bed and listened to the few words that came up through the noise on the roof.  
I had the weirdest dream the night before: I dreamed that Ceecee and I were down in San Francisco hanging out with the boys, and she and Kirk started making out with each other for almost no reason in particular.  
I hung out there in between James and Lars on the side of the room, right next to something that resembled a puddle of oil, but it took me a second to realize that it was a black hole. The three of us sitting there sipping on some coffee next to a swirling black hole.

( _Charlotte's note: Cliff?_ )

Lars asked me something in something that sounded like Danish, or at least I think that's what Danish sounded like. It may have just been my own mind wandering, or at least that's what I thought when I woke up to the sound of my mom knocking on the door.  
"Chris?" she called out. "Chris, are you awake?"  
I shook myself awake, and sat up, and slid out from under the covers onto the chilly carpet, and made my way over to the door.  
"Yeah?" I greeted her once I opened the door.  
"That was that one boy you girls were hanging out with," she answered, "his name was Lars, I think?"  
"Oh, Lars!" My skipped a beat when I knew who she was talking about.  
"He told me to tell you two things," she began, "the first thing is they found a new bassist for their band and they want you to meet him."  
"Uh-huh? And the second thing?"  
"The second thing—and this puts me at great ease, too, like I'm so glad he said this, because it'll make life easier for all of us."  
"What is it?" I asked her.  
"They want you go on tour with them over on the East Coast in a few days."  
I gasped and threw my arms around her, and she did the same for me.  
"Oh my God!" I declared.  
"I know! Ohhhh, my girl's gonna be a traveling musician with her best friend—"  
"It'll get us away from here for a while, too," I pointed out, standing back to look at her in the face.  
"That's what I mean! It'll make life easier for all of us. You girls won't have to worry so much and I won't, either. And moreover, like I said, it's in a couple of days, on the twenty-sixth over in Rhode Island—he told me they're just came home from Japan and they'll be heading out in the next two days or so. So pack your things and tell your school counselors you won't be attending for a while."  
"Okay. I'll call Ceecee first, though, and then I'll get right on it." I gave her another hug before I darted past her into the kitchen. I picked up the receiver to dial Ceecee's number.  
I didn't care if she woke up groggy because she was going to wake up to quite the surprise that morning, especially when I couldn't hardly hold the phone receiver in my hand.  
"Ceecee! You're not gonna believe this. Lars just called. We're going on tour! We're going to New York City! WE'RE GOING TO NEW YORK CITY!"  
"Wait, what?" she gasped.  
"Yeah! Grab your guitar and your bass! We're heading to the East Coast in a couple of days!"  
"A couple of days?! Holy shit!"  
"I know! But we're back in business, baby!"


	28. The one with a ticket to ride

_November 23, 1986_.

It's so strange being here in Rhode Island, and by that I mean it's a head trip to be here on the East Coast, period. I'm trying to adjust to the three hour time change and also the humidity and the fact that everything feels so close by, perhaps more so than back in Seattle, or in Reno for that matter. Mom has her way around New York City and I wish she was able to join us because it's easy to lose ourselves here.  
Even flying overhead, flying over the New York skyline, I took one look down at the delicate web of streets and high rising buildings, and felt dizzy within mere seconds!  
It made me how Joey felt when he first came here down from upstate.  
We had just gotten here earlier this evening on the next flight out from Seattle, and to be honest, it was quite the quiet trip for both Ceecee, Clara and me. Clara, who decided to join us on our trip to act as our manager and our proverbial ears.  
We had boarded the plane with our guitar cases slung over our shoulders and took our seats next to the window. She told me she felt like John Lennon sitting there on the plane.  
Well of course! She's the genius virtuoso, which thus makes me Paul McCartney?  
We kind of are like the Beatles now that I think about it. Getting our start playing on the streets of a city and not knowing where to go from here, that is until we found the opportunity and took it by the horns for a hitching of a ride.  
Moreover, Clara started singing "Ticket to Ride" right then, just kind of to herself. I was almost inclined to take out my guitar and begin playing along with her, but the stewardesses had their eye on us and so I couldn't do it.  
It was a short flight but it proved to be enough for the three of us, especially when we reached the airport and met up with Anthrax's manager, Jon Zazula, or Jonny Z as they all called him. Apparently, he also manages Overkill, Danny's old band, and Nuclear Assault, and he was the reason behind Metallica's emergence over here.  
Regardless, I couldn't hardly get "Ticket to Ride" out of my head. I still can't, even now, having taken to our hotel room in the heart of downtown Providence and preparing to head to bed. We have a big day tomorrow, one of rehearsals and meeting Metallica's new bassist—Jason, is his name, if I remember correctly from what Lars told me? Jason Newsted?  
We're going to meet him tomorrow over breakfast, along with Overkill, Nuclear Assault, and a bunch of other people. While we checked into our room here on the second floor, James caught me on the stairs and told me everyone wants to meet us, the two girls with nothing more than the guitars on our backs and a bucketload of truth to say to the world, and our manager, the older artistic sister who took us to a metal show in spite of her blindness.  
I'm just so stoked about all of this happening right now. It's actually happening.  
Ceecee, Clara, and I are here in Rhode Island about to open for Metallica and Anthrax.  
Little Black Moon, hanging out in the blackness of the night sky in the wake of Cliff's death, about to make ourselves known here.


	29. The one with flaming hair and painted roses

_November 24, 1986_.

Wow, what a DAY!

First of all, we met Jason over breakfast. He's this tall, long haired boy with a big beaming smile on his face. He was so nice to the three of us, and to Clara in particular. He, like Frankie and Charlie, called her an inspiration from her blindness and her willingness to make art in spite of it all.

He and Ceecee got to talking about guitars and bass, and he mentioned about the previous band he played in called Flotsam and Jetsam.

“Came down to Phoenix and everything,” he noted as he picked at his scrambled eggs. “They just so happened to be there and needed a bassist by the time my other band broke up.”

“Wow!” she declared. “So you too got quite the lucky break.”

“Yup, played my last show with them on Halloween and came on board with Metallica on the eighth. Cheers—” He lifted his coffee mug for a toast to her.

Next, we were at rehearsal afterwards, and we set up our acoustic guitars for our tiny set within this large auditorium. It's not that large—Scott told me it houses two thousand at the most—but it's the most Ceecee and I have performed in front of. We're going to be sitting on a pair of stools with microphones in front of our mouths and propped upon our guitars. It's the most people I'm going to be singing in front of. All I can think of is how Joey and James do it every night. I just need to think of them the whole time. Charlie painted us a little black crescent moon next to a bright red heart on a stretched white square canvas to act as our temporary moniker. I propped it up against a black vase holding three violets on a narrow table between us. Clara suggested we buy some incense while we're on the road to add a little more nuance to our set.

As we congregated there in the middle of our small stage with our guitars resting in our lap, Lars strode on over to us with his arm around a tall gentleman, much taller than him.

He towered over us in fact, with his long wavy fiery red hair, snug leather jacket, and fitted skinny jeans with holes in the knees.

He introduced himself as Dave. Dave Mustaine.

The front man of his own band Megadeth after he was fired from Metallica.

Apparently he's living in a ramshackle shanty town of sorts near Central Park, but he hitched a ride over here to Rhode Island because he heard Black Moon is touring with his old band mates Metallica. He also overheard some acoustic guitars playing while walking by the back door so he couldn't help but poke his head in.

He's another one with bit of an odd twinkle in his eye, kind of Joey. But Joey's more boyish and a total kid at heart whereas Dave looks like he wants to protect the both of us.

He sat there next to us as we performed Heart's “Straight On” for him and it coaxed a nodding of the head out of him.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“You girls definitely have somethin' going,” he told us. He pointed at me. “What'd you say your name was again? Charlotte?”

( _Charlotte's note: HA!_ )

“Chris,” I corrected him.

“Chris! Yeah, I like how you have this kinda—melancholic lounge singer quality to you. The _chanteuse_ , I wanna call it. Like if you didn't have a guitar on you, you could probably be in a night club with a nice slinky dress on. Very retro. Like Lars told me your influences, but it makes me think of the Great Depression era in a vage sort of way. Those early, early folk singers.”

I didn't dare tell him about the King of Hearts and the possibility of Ceecee and me getting our bodies sliced up from the chest outward. Maybe that explained it.

And then the third thing was our dinner together with the guys from Overkill and Nuclear Assault. It was an awful lot of people crowded into that tiny buffet room, especially since we all were hungry after a long day of rehearsal and technical set up for Black Moon's intimate set to play before Anthrax's rambunctious one.

Joey, Frankie, Ceecee, Clara, and I all sat on the edge of the room next to Bob from Overkill, who's basically Joey with light skin and blond hair, and Danny from Nuclear Assault, who gave up his seat for Clara when he saw the cane in her hand.

Joey turned to me for a second and told me to watch over his plate with my life for a second. He wove through the crowd and disappeared into the hallway. I craned his neck to see where he went.

“Where'd Joe Mama go?” Danny asked me in a joking manner as he stood before us with his plate resting in his one hand.

“Dunno,” I confessed to him with a laugh and a shrug of my shoulders, “he just said to look over his food for a minute—”

“Here he comes!” he declared right before he took another bite of quiche Lorraine. “I recognize his standard poodle hair.”

Joey emerged from behind two guys from Overkill—I forget their names. I'll learn everyone's names come Christmas.

But he emerged from behind them cradling a bouquet of white roses with speckles of crimson red on the petals.

“Okay, these were supposed to be white roses—but there's some red on them, though?” he told me as he handed it to me.

“Aw, Chris, you lucky girl!” Ceecee declared. I set the plates aside so I could stand to my feet and take the roses. I put my free arm around his slender body. I didn't know what to say to him other than the breathy “thank you—you are so sweet” into his ear.

“You're a gentleman, Joe,” said Frankie once he let go of me to give him and Bob a couple of high-fives.

It took me to return to the room a little bit ago for me to realize the red speckles are blood. I smelled them and picked up that faint ferric smell over the fresh one.

My boy gave me roses, albeit deadly painted ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yes, that was a Soundgarden reference, albeit to one of my favorite songs from them<3


	30. The one with drum rolls and roll calls

_November 27, 1986_.

Last night was astonishing. I don't even know where to start because it was all a whip, flash, and a blur. I came off the stage with a rush of blood to my head as though I had run a marathon. To say I felt nervous would be the understatement of the decade, maybe the century. I could hardly sleep that night because of the adrenaline flowing through me.

In fact, I can see how this lifestyle can get addicting: you're going up onto the stage before a bunch of people, and you don't know what to expect at first, so it's easy to feel butterflies like crazy. But there's something about singing into a microphone and strumming a guitar next to your best friend all the while.

There's something about it all.

Something that only a few people get to experience.

It was like a dream, sitting next to Ceecee on the stools and with nothing more than our guitars and some incense burning in between us before the painted moon. My voice echoed through the rafters of the theater, over the sea of heads as far as the eye could see.

She shredded and kept us going even with my voice shaking and breaking a few times. I knew I was connecting with some of the people down in front because of their focus on my light blonde hair and the dyed streaks on the side of my head.

I told everyone about the two of us and that we were more than honored to be opening for Metallica and Anthrax; at one point, while talking to the audience, I noticed Joey, Dave, and Clara congregated off to the side. Her dark shades reflected with the crimson red light behind us; even in the darkness, I could see Dave's fiery red hair surrounding his assuring smile. Joey kept his eye on me and his hands tucked into his pockets.

“This next song is one our favorites to cover,” I told the audience as I turned back to Joey and Clara, “let's just say that it set us straight on—” And when I said that a couple of people in the audience cheered and gave us stray claps. “—uh, yeah! Set us straight on to the path of touring with them.”

And then James and Jason joined us on vocals. I don't think neither of us were expecting that, either, especially when Ceecee almost messed up in the second verse. But James crouched down next to me with a microphone up his mouth, and Jason next to Ceecee with one up to his.

Neither of us were expecting a standing ovation but we managed to get it!

“James Hetfield and Jason Newsted, everyone!” Ceecee declared.

We strode offstage and the first thing Joey did was throw his arms around me.

“You ladies did it!” he said, excited. “You fucking did it!”

Kirk gave Ceecee a hug shortly thereafter. Within time, Anthrax took to the stage. Scott stomped around with his big black boots and let his hair fly behind his head. Danny and Frankie twinned one another; the latter often pointed at someone in the audience. Charlie made a drum roll to cover up his mistake and yet everyone seemed to love that? In fact, Ceecee and Clara even clapped along with it. I heard Joey sing over the phone and then over the record player, but to hear him there, on the stage in front of those very same people, was something totally different. His long black curls floated behind his head like a curtain in a breeze. His lanky body moved around like a marionette puppet.

It was kind of hot now that I think about it.

I thought back to when Ceecee and I were in the park over the summer while the boys were away, and she helped uncover that part of me. I wanted to touch myself as Joey's voice rang throughout the theater: their music is even more cathartic and hypnotic in person than it is over the record player.

And then there was Metallica.

James roared like a lion: it helped matters that his long blond hair billowed around his head like a mane. I never realized how hard Lars hit his drums and how much he moved about to top it all off. Jason meanwhile was the real hero in my eye, standing in for Cliff and putting his own spin on “Disposable Heroes.”

For some reason, the way James yelled “back to the front!” reminded me of roll call in gym class in high school. Running around the gym, or doing laps around the track—back to the front! Doing warm ups—back to the front!

And the way he shouted the words made my knees buckle—and my toes curl on the inside of my shoes. My toes are curling right now as I'm writing this right now.

I'm in between the two men now.

And Kirk was unbelievable on his guitar work: he painted screeching, shrieking swirls of notes with the mere strums of his pick. His long black curls weren't as floaty as Joey's, but they still managed to flow behind his head like the tentacles of an octopus.

I'm just on cloud nine right now, and I know Ceecee is, too. I'm kind of surprised she was able to sleep last night where I didn't sleep a wink.

And I'm rambling nonsense now so I'm just gonna leave it at this for the time being.

We're headed to New York next—and Joey's neck of the woods, no less!


	31. The one with a confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"If you wanna make your move, well then you'd better come in."_  
>  -"Time Bomb", Rancid

_November 27, 1986_.

( _Charlotte's note: what happened here? It looks like Chris was trying to write with her feet?_ )

We arrived in Poughkeepsie—that's the third time I've tried to spell it without Joey's help, and I've got it now!—about half an hour ago and several things happened between as of writing this and having left Providence.

The first thing that happened was we hitched a ride in Nuclear Assault's van because Anthrax's wouldn't start up for whatever reason, and James is still a little shook from the bus crash two months ago—can't blame him. But Ceecee fell asleep on my arm the first stint of the trip, or from the border of Rhode Island and into the outskirts of Hartford, so I'm having to write this left handed. It's so weird—it's not like playing guitar and fingering on the fret board. My hand shakes and I'm having to rewrite stuff because I can't even read it.

So, future me, if you're reading this right now, now you know why my hand writing looks like it's all over the place.

( _Charlotte's note: oh, I see._ )

The second thing is this sentiment that Frankie, of all people, confessed to Ceecee and me once she woke up—he actually said this to us, I am still wondering where he got this from:

“I really hope that serial killer back home in Seattle totally misses the fact that you ladies are now back East.”

No. I'm not joking.

I asked Joey about it and he told me that they're all concerned about the two of us here on the eastern seaboard. It's all a little bit too much for them, as he put it.

“The least you two gals can do is hang low with us,” Danny from Nuclear Assault told us when we stopped in the outskirts of the Bronx. We were up the block from a small cozy looking bakery called Smell the Magic. Even from the service station we parked at, I could make out the sight of pastries and things in the front window.

Charlie and Scott both warned Ceecee and me to not go in there, but neither one of them ever elaborated.

( _Charlotte's note: I think I've heard of that place? I only remember hearing about it about ten years ago in I believe Reader's Digest, but that's about it_.)

And then the third thing is another confession from me. This is not an apology, but rather—an encounter, I might say?

While we still posted up there in the Bronx, I sat on the edge of the floor of the van with my legs dangling down towards the pavement. I was about ready to reach behind me for my guitar case when James strode up to me with a cup of coffee in one hand. The late morning sun shone through the gray sky over our heads and down on the crown of his head so he resembled a lion yet again.

“I forgot to tell you that you did wonderful last night,” he told me.

“So were you,” I followed it up as he handed me the little white cup of coffee. He lingered next to me with his back to the inside of the door. It was just us: Anthrax had received a call from Jonny Z to give an update on their van and thus they left about a few minutes before to catch the next subway down to Manhattan. Ceecee, Kirk, and Lars had left to fetch something to eat, Jason was stuck in a line into the men's room, and I forgot where Nuclear Assault had run off to. Thus, James and I were alone together. Alone with the feeling of death overhanging us.

The silence was almost awkward between the two of us, especially when I remembered his letters and his phone call to me. But as the clouds broke some more, and more sun shone onto the top of his long streaky blond hair and the side of his face, the more I relaxed.

For a few moments, I was sure of it. I think he likes me, kind of like how Joey likes me. I see that twinkle in his gorgeous blue eyes: I sense it in the way in which he stood next to me. I feel it. I feel it in my bones. James and Joey both have the hots for me.

But Joey admitted it to me: James is a mystery. That is until he took a seat next to me and huddled up close to me as though he was too cold.

And on a side note: I haven't told a soul about this.

I haven't even told Ceecee about this.

I finally turned my head to him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replied as he took a sip of his coffee.

I nibbled on my lip because I could hardly take my mind off his phone call to me right after the accident. It was so obvious to me, especially when he turned to look at me again, that time with a shy, Mona Lisa type smile on his narrow face.

“Do you—worry about me?” I asked him in a small voice.

His expression never changed for a good long minute. He never took his eyes off of me as he took a sip of his coffee. I cradled my cup in my hands, right in my lap: the warmth kept me reassured against the cold wind, which started to pick up. The sun dipped behind the clouds over our heads again. James returned to me with his eyebrows knitted together.

“Do I worry about you?” he repeated it, also in a small voice. I nodded my head.

“I started worrying about you when I caught word there was a serial killer going around in Seattle—” He cleared his throat. “—and albeit one who's going after little blonde girls who are artists in some way.”

“So—before the accident,” I followed along.

“I started worrying about you when they found that corpse outside of the hotel. Mainly because that woman resembled you.”

I gaped at him. I didn't know what to say right then. Joey had been so up front with me, and thus it made sense to me to feel confused about James. But it made sense right then. It all made sense, sitting there on the floor of Nuclear Assault's van at a service station in the Bronx.

“Just do me a favor,” he continued in a near whisper.

“Sure,” I assured him. He raised his pinky finger at me; I hooked my own around it to take a vow.

“Don't share that with anyone. Not with Ceecee, or your mom, and I won't do it with Lars or Kirk or Jason—Joey especially shouldn't know, either. Let's keep what's between you and me between you and me. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

And much to our luck, Ceecee and Jason returned to us right then.

Let the games truly begin, I might say.


	32. The one with the subway and Chinese food

_November 27, 1986_.

Another entry for today because Cees and I just saw most of New York City over the course of most of the day, such that I have to write about it. At about eleven thirty, give or take, Jason approached James and me to say that Anthrax had gotten lost on the subway, somewhere down by Manhattan. He told us that Scott asked to come and scout them out. I guess their van was beyond saving at that point anyway.

“How the hell did they get lost on the subway?” Ceecee was saying as the three of us and Jason and James drove Nuclear Assault's van down to the nearest terminal from the service station. “They're from New York for God's sake!”

“I don't have any idea,” Jason confessed. We arrived at the terminal and it was exactly how I pictured it to be there in the Bronx, from the pillar of wispy steam billowing from the street to our left to the fact Danny from Nuclear Assault gave us a padlock to lock up our things in the back there. The pale tiles on the walls around us were stark, only accentuated by the pale lights over our heads. It smelled like a toilet down there, especially once we congregated around the platform.

“God, it stinks down here,” Ceecee complained as she covered her nose.

“Welcome to New York, sis,” Clara told her, holding onto her cane. “At least it's honest, though. They admit the city is kind of a filthy place, not like Seattle which can be bitter about newcomers especially.” She pointed her dark shades in my direction and she rested a hand on my shoulder.

They admit the city is filthy and fast paced, and yet still call it home, whereas in Seattle, we have a serial killer on the loose and it's been difficult for anyone to put their finger on it even with a sense of urgency and my mom's willingness to let me go on tour so she can have some time alone to write about it.

Okay, I see how it is, New York.

The subway itself meanwhile was interesting: Clara and Ceecee took the handicapped seats while Jason, James, and I stood next to them holding onto the rungs on the ceiling. We moved so quickly and with such haste that it reminded me of the few times Mom and I took the train from Seattle to Sacramento so I could go visit my dad. And yet, everything ran so smoothly: I remember looking out the pitch dark windows at the occasional neon light glimmering out of the darkness as if we were riding straight into the future.

And then at one point, I understood why they would get lost on the subway, especially when we rolled into a terminal and I spotted some red markings on the platform walls to the right.

I flashed back on the mark on the window at school. It still baffles me a bit, but I gave it some thought right there as we rolled to a stop there.

Together in death with Anthrax and Metallica.

Black Moon together in death with Anthrax and Metallica.

Maybe this was a trap. It made my heart skip a few beats and it made me hunker closer to James.

But I didn't want to tell Ceecee because I gave that even more thought. How would the King of Hearts know we would come here? That was ridiculous to think that.

Indeed, we arrived in Manhattan without there being an incident of some kind. And as we were slowing to a stop, through the wrought iron posts, Ceecee gestured out the window to the left of us.

“There they are,” James laughed behind me. The boys had congregated on a bench together there in the midst of the station, right outside of the door closest to us.

Ceecee and I hurried off the train first, while Jason offered Clara help and James rounded out the group.

We padded over to them and Scott lifted his head to show us a smile.

“You're probably as lost as we are,” he began.

“What the hell happened?” asked Jason.

“We just couldn't remember what block the service station was on,” Frankie confessed with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Yeah, and then the two of them decided to bicker about it,” Danny cracked, gesturing to Frankie and Charlie both.

“So then Scott called Jonny Z and then Jason got in touch with Jonny to find out what happened, and Scott and Jason got a hold of each other,” Charlie said in a single breath. Ceecee and I gazed on at him for a moment, and then I turned to Joey who crowded on the side of the bench right next to him. He showed me a lopsided little smile.

“So how have you been?”

“I'm just here for the ride,” he confessed with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Yeah, you guys don't have subways in upstate,” Ceecee added.

“Nah, the most we have to worry about is getting ran over by a tractor or running into a tree.”

Once the words left his lips, the train left the station.

“Shit!” Ceecee shrieked.

“It's alright, it'll be back in about half an hour,” Scott assured her.

“What should we do now?” asked Clara.

“You ladies hungry?” asked Frankie. “If you're not now, you will be pretty soon.”

“Yeah,” Ceecee and I said in unison.

“There's a Chinese place right up the stairs from here,” he continued.

And so the boys treated us to Chinese food from the heart of New York City. There was something so weirdly quaint about it: waiting in the subway with these five men eating orange chicken and jasmine rice out of white containers with wooden chopsticks.

But even as we returned to the subway train to head on back up to the Bronx, I kept thinking about those red markings in that one terminal. In fact, we saw them again, this time around they were in the shape of a heart. At school, it was a spade. Now it was a heart. Maybe it was a sign. But it's hard to say, especially once we had arrived back in the Bronx and we had to continue onward to the drive up to Poughkeepsie.

We got to the hotel not even twenty minutes ago, and I'm already wiped.

In fact, when I got out of the shower, all I wanted to do was climb into bed and go right to sleep.

But Frankie was at the door to ask Ceecee, Clara, and me how we were doing here.

“Also—this is for you,” he told me. He handed me a little red envelope: I turned it over to find it was completely blank on all sides, save for the line of a heart, a spade, a diamond, and a three leafed club on the back flap.

“Who's this from?” I asked him, and he shrugged his shoulders at me.

“Scott just told me that it's a piece of mail for you but it never got sent out, though.”

I have been looking at this envelope for the past twenty minutes. I have been struggling as to figure out who could have sent it to me and yet neglected to make note of who could have sent this.

I guess the only way to figure it out is to actually read it.


	33. The one that might be a love letter

( _Charlotte's note: simple, humble, and yet it manages to smell so good. Who wrote this?_ )

Christina—

I need to write these words down for you because I don't know if or when I can find another opportunity to do so for you. I have seen you perform in Seattle and then Providence and I must ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt. I don't have the privilege of speaking to you up front because of the eyes on us all at the moment.

It might seem ridiculous, petty even, for me to avoid you constantly like this. I feel the need to sing it to you, and I feel the need to play for you. I feel the need to do so much for you even with the feeling of the end looming over us all. I'm sure that's been beat into your head to the point of oblivion by now, what with the serial killer there in the Northwest, but it's gotta be known through and through as time goes on and the world feels to be on the brink of oblivion itself.

Words have such a powerful sentience over us all. They're probably second only to music, at least for me they are. I don't know about you, but it's the case for me.

I still remember sitting next to you there in the back of the van on the way here to Poughkeepsie. That cramped van with Nuclear Assault where we only had those small black straps keeping us down to the floor. And I relished every moment we were on the subway, too. That filthy, gross smelling subway which is really nothing fancy.

I know. It sounds creepy—it sounds bad even, and I'm wary of even sending this out to you because I feel like I have no business to say this to you.

But I need to come clean with you. I like you. I like that you're humble in your guitar playing skills, and I like that you're a writer and you're willing to get out there and show your craft some love. I like your singing voice, too. Hell, I remember watching you and Ceecee there on the stage from off to the side and feeling warm. I don't know if you're familiar with that at all, but it's a soft feeling. Like, I managed to find that spot of softness even in the wake of loss.

But I feel genuinely dirty saying that, though. I feel that you wouldn't be interested in me in the least. I look at myself and feel like it's just not possible between the two of us. It's not jealousy—it has nothing to do with that. It has more to do with that unrequited feeling, like you wouldn't feel the same about me.

I know I'm rambling right now, but there's no denying it.

I just wanted to get that out there to you because it's going to drive me absolutely batshit insane if I stay silent. You can tell me to fuck right off, but I needed to air that confession to you because any one of us could drop dead tomorrow, or one of us couldn't wake up, or one of us could be murdered.

All my love,

Frankie


	34. The one with a headdress

( _Charlotte's note: I was not expecting to see that letter from Frankie in the least. I just—wow. I'm still stunned by that._ )

_November 28, 1986_.

Another short entry again this time—

First of all, Frankie's letter to me astounded me. Like I don't even know what to say about it. I tucked it in my guitar case underneath a book that Dave gave me before rehearsals. I haven't told Ceecee or Clara about it.

Second, this show was AMAZING! The upstate New York crowd, I think because of Joey, loved us. Danny told me that the Rhode Island crowd was a little unsure of us because we were a new act showing our faces here on the East Coast the first time so it was like an experiment of sorts. He said that when he was in Overkill, they had the same issue there with their opening acts. People in New Jersey heard of Overkill courtesy of Jonny Z and relentless touring throughout the area, but their opening acts were like us: a couple of kids with guitars who wanted as much as attention as the other kids with guitars.

But the crowd had a warm, welcoming energy: notably the whole front row in front of us filled out with guys.

Lars joked it was from the fact two girls were at the helm, two girls opening for two thrash acts. I guess their audiences prior to now were mostly men, barring the few women near the back of the room. I thought it was baffling at first because they're all cute guys who should have the ladies throwing their panties at them ad infinitum, but that's part of the deal, I suppose.

Anyway—I'm so full of adrenaline right now I can't hardly get the words out of me! Anthrax did this song that's going to be on their next album—it's called Indians. Scott told me he penned it after reading about

Joey put on this huge red headdress of feathers—this thing was huge, too! The crown was bigger than his head and the streamers of feathers went all the way down to the floor. He took off his shirt and ran around the stage like an actual Indian.

He had become Chief for a night. And it was hot!

Moreover—and I didn't realize this at first until Ceecee pointed it out to me—he had put a henna tattoo on his chest in the shape of a little crescent moon, and he had it done right over his heart.

There's a part of me that thinks back to the ace of spades we saw at school but I have no doubt that he did that as a gesture of some sort.

Oh, Joey…


	35. The one with a bloody knife

_November 30, 1986_.

The past couple of days have been a complete dream come true for the Black Moon camp. Between the two of us hanging out with all of the guys and all of them being so kind to us, I've completely forgotten that the King of Hearts exists. We're in Connecticut right now and it's pouring rain outside at the moment. Just something about gazing out of the hotel window while Ceecee's in the shower, looking out to the pitch black sky as the rain is streaking over the window pane and there's nothing more than the golden street lights to glean over them. Not even the little desk lamp next to me can give them some highlights.

We're going to New York City tomorrow and Ceecee and I can hardly contain our excitement! We love New York and the guys from Nuclear Assault told us they'll introduce us to the crowd if they must.

I finally got close to Joey last night after our show in New Jersey.

The past couple of days I've brushed elbows with James and had breakfast with him and Lars, the latter of whom always gave me a good morning kiss once he saw me, and as a result the two of us have bit of a friendship going, but Joey seemed to back off for a little bit. I barely saw him in Poughkeepsie and they left before the two of us and Metallica piled into Nuclear Assault's van again to make the drive back here to New England.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the letter Frankie wrote to me. And I thought that might have had something to do with it, like maybe Joey and Frankie are both purposely avoiding me. But that makes no sense, though.

And then I actually bumped into Joey after Anthrax's set. Literally bumped into him.

Ceecee and I earned swag and stuff at every venue we've been to so far, and our guitar cases have been overflowing with said stuff. Since we're on the road, we have no permanent space for all of this, so just when we're about to settle into the room, we have to leave and go to the next one. It's all so quick and transient that Clara actually confessed to me that she's surprised everyone manages to keep themselves sane this whole time.

But because our cases are so heavy now, the three of us had received the help of the guys from Overkill as we made our way out of the theater. It was this cozy little venue with red and gold trimming all around the front lobby so even though it was quite cold outside, the whole place felt warm and comfortable: we brought even more warmth to our set which I feel the people there in New Jersey loved us for, perhaps more than our music.

Clara had her cane extended out right in front of her and Bob had his hand rested upon her shoulder to ensure she could find her way to the door. They were underneath the heater vent in the ceiling when I almost lost my balance from the dead weight on my back. I staggered about to catch myself.

I fell on something soft, and I looked up to find it was Joey.

"Damn, easy there," he told me as he clasped onto me to keep me from falling to the floor. His fingers crept over my shoulders: I could feel his thumbs right on my chest. I raised up to look into his big brown eyes and at the smooth bridge of his aquiline nose. I finally had a moment alone with Joey.

"You okay?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I assured him.

"Chris!" Ceecee called out from behind us.

"I'll catch up with you guys," I told her. She then flashed me a mischievous grin before she and Clara ambled out of the hallway with Overkill. The last thing I heard before the door closed was the sound of the rain on the pavement out there.

"What you wanna do?" Joey asked me once I brought my attention to him.

"Oh, my God, you are so cute, it's annoying," I scoffed at him.

"Wow, great singer _and_ I'm cute?" he teased me. "By the way, I wanna keep thanking you ladies for coming with us."

"It's either that or staying there in Sea-Town with that serial killer coming after us."

"It's gotta be quite the relief to be all around the Northeast." He gave his inky black curls a little toss which showed off his neck. I hoisted the guitar case back over my shoulder: I didn't care if it was weighing me down a bit. I stood there with Joey in a lush red and gold corridor in New Jersey. I looked down at his hips and his thumbs tucked under his belt loops.

I raised my gaze back up to his face.

"Like what you see here?" he teased me.

"The darkness all around us, bringing us together," I whispered to him.

"You wanna... give me a bit of poetry?"

"Give me your warm flesh, and give me your earthly fire," I said on the spot. "Give me a single reason and know that I've taken your gloves. Without a light in the hallway and without a hallway in the mind; slide in between me and the cold of the void."

Joey ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "Go on."

"Lay me down to feel the leather—" I eyed the smooth sleeves of his jacket. "—tie me down and lock the door, and touch me 'til sunrise on all quarters and hit me 'til midday on all sides."

He glanced down at his chest, and I looked right at that low neckline of his shirt.

"There's no heat—of breath and there's no sear—of pain, even as you shake beneath me and the salt hangs over us."

I could hear him breathing harder as I moved in closer to him.

"No one can ever know the way you've touched me," I whispered into his dark lips, "or that I've caressed you down, even as the mark is made. But lo, darling—" He closed his eyes when I said that. "—know that I'm forever yours, carved into each other's skin, the mark—of the Black Knight."

"Kiss me," he pleaded. I brushed my lips against his: chills ran down my arms and my spine. I rested my fingers upon his chest. He felt soft, even with his slender build.

I had my first kiss, and with Joey, the sexy bachelor no less. I pulled back and gazed into his eyes once more. He stared into mine.

"Our parents can't know about this," he whispered to me.

"Especially with all of the murders around us."

"They could murder the both of us if we let the cat out of the bag."

"We could end up in bags ourselves." I dropped my gaze back down to his chest and his stomach.

"That'd be a shame," he pointed out.

"I couldn't be able to feel you," I whispered. Something caught his eye and he tilted his head to the left to check it out. His eyes enlarged and he looked as though he was holding his breath.

"What's the matter?" I asked him.

"Chris, don't look now, but—" I couldn't help it. I turned to look.

Blood dripped down the side of the wall across from us. My heart hammered inside of my chest as I found out it was oozing out of the vent in the ceiling. Right where Ceecee, Clara, and Overkill had stood a mere few moments earlier.

"There's blood. Blood everywhere." I looked to the right to find even more blood running down the wall down the corridor from us.

"You have to kiss me," he whispered to me; his voice was husky and delicate, a far cry from the soaring powerful shriek I had heard over the past few nights.

"Here?" I demanded.

"Yes. Please. Please, Christina—I'm begging you, Mama."

I pressed my lips onto his again. Even though blood and the feeling of death surrounded us, I never felt closer to Joey than in that moment. The dead weight of the guitar case pressed against my back so I pressed my body against his. We were making out as blood trickled out of the vent and the trimming of the corridor over our heads. I never imagined I would make out with a boy in such a morbid setting.

He clasped his hands to the sides of my face.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he told me in a hushed voice.

"Let's," I agreed with him. I led him out of the corridor as even more blood fell out of the vent to our left. Even with the heavy weight on my back, I managed to run with him right behind me. We hurried out of the venue as a few police men wrapped in black cloaks passed us to the side door there.

"There they are—" I heard Lars' voice to the right of us. Joey put his arm around me and ducked his head away from the pouring rain. We caught up with all them congregated there at the sidewalk. Frankie offered his umbrella to us; on the other hand, Charlie offered to take my guitar case off of my back. I stretched my arms to give Ceecee and Clara both hugs, and then one to Joey himself to feel his softness yet again.

"Bastard mutilated one of Metallica's stage hands," Scott told us.

"Who?" I asked him as I moved my hand away from Joey's side.

"The King of Hearts," Clara filled in; there was a soft _thud_ behind us. I turned to find two of the police men tossing things to each other. Since it was raining, I guess their hands were slippery.

"He followed us over here to the East Coast," Ceecee added. "Dan from Nuclear Assault said he stabbed that poor guy and ripped his heart straight out of his chest." _Thud_.

"When did it happen?" Joey asked her with a mortified look on his face.

"No idea," continued Ceecee. "Dan poked his head out of the window up there—" She gestured to the second level of the venue behind us. "—and told us to call the cops—" _Thud_. "—and then Clara and I remembered you and Joey were still in there."

 _Thud_. I felt Joey put his arm around me. He called me "mama" in there as the blood was coming down around us.

"What do we do?" I asked them.

"Blend in," replied Frankie. _Thud_.

"Since we're hopping all over the Northeast, he's having a hard time catching up with us," said Clara as her dark lenses peered off into the darkness.

"Hartford's out of the way," said Danny. "Pretty out of the way, too—" _Thud, thud_. "He'll be in the City first before we're done. And then we're going to the Big Apple afterwards, and then into Canada."

"It's New York City," Charlie assured me, "—it's big and foreboding. He'll never find you ladies."

I have to take Charlie's word for it, and I still have, even now as writing this entry and looking back out the window again. I can't help but have an unsettling feeling within me. He's out there somewhere with that knife in hand. He's out for my blood and out for it in such a way that he's willing to kill anyone to get to me.


	36. The one that probably needs bleach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Out damned spot! Out! Out!"_  
>  -Lady MacBeth

_December 1, 1986_.

Apparently Scott's birthday is on New Year's Eve? He told us that he wants to celebrate it with the two of us. But following the nonsense last night with the blood running down the walls and the dead body found upstairs, neither of us have any idea if we're going to wake up in the morning.

Ceecee confessed to me that she could hardly sleep the night before. I knew it was from that sight. We didn't even see it but it was enough to have an impact on us. We're losing ourselves in New England with a serial killer on our tail. I just hope we don't lose ourselves along the way, because we could wake up murdered.

We arrived here in Hartford in time for Jonny Z to give the boys from Anthrax a ring to ask if they were alright at all.

Sure, we were alright. But the thought overhanging us, the thought that this person—Ceecee still doesn't believe the King of Hearts is a person, so I'm going to add the caveat of "thing" to that—could rip our hearts out and leave us to hemorrhage out around us. The thought makes me sick, but I have to trust in the network of streets here in Connecticut and in the Big Apple. Easy to lose him, but also easy to lose ourselves.

I will say this: earlier today, after we arrived here at the hotel, we all took showers because the rain water and the thought of blood left us feeling dirty. But no amount of soothing warm water could shake the filthy feeling off of my skin. I could lose this body before I have the opportunity to come even closer with someone, be it Joey or James or even Frankie.

I found a small enough towel for my body but even as I put on my robe, there was nothing else to dry myself off with. I tightened the belt and put on my slippers, and headed out of the room as Ceecee was making a call back home.

As I searched around for a clean towel for my hair, I padded through the hallway and passed by Anthrax's hotel room. The door hung ajar so I could take a peek inside. Joey stood there with his back to the wall: I had no idea what was going on, but only I could see he had taken off his shirt and unfastened his jeans, but he had never taken them off. I knew he had just climbed out of the shower granted his luscious black curls glistened in the light of the hallway.

He was in my direction but I knew he paid no attention to me. But his jeans clung to his hips even with them unbuttoned. His belly is absolutely _beautiful_ , just gorgeous, being so flat and with that smooth coffee colored skin. He held onto the waist band of his jeans as though he was about to take them off, but he never did even as I strode on past him. He never turned his head as I made my way along the carpet, but I had no idea what he was doing right then. There's a part of me that wants to make love with him again in that bloody hallway.

It was so intense and in hindsight it gives me such a rush. Even with the King of Hearts coming after us, I can't help but feel hot about it. The feeling of death brings us all closer together. I want to feel that beautiful belly if and when I get a chance. I got to feel his chest, that's for sure, but I want to go lower.

Lars' high pitched voice caught my ear, followed by the word "Dave". I had no idea Dave was there, even as I made my way further down the hall to the next hotel room. Their room door stood wide open, and thus I could take a peek inside. Lars and James were seated on the foot of the bed closest to the door: the former had his left leg crossed over his right, while the latter sat there slouching and with his arms folded over his chest. Dave was nowhere to be found there in the hotel room.

James nodded at me and then Lars turned his gaze to me.

"Hey, Chris!" he called out in a joyous tone of voice.

I lingered there at the door frame and showed them a nervous smile.

"What's goin' on, doll?" asked James.

"Do you boys have any clean towels?" I asked them.

"Towels?" Lars echoed and knitted his eyebrows together. He turned to look back at James.

"I think we do?" said James with a deliberate, reluctant tone to his voice. "The maid brought some into the bathroom, but at least that's according to Kirk."

"Here, I'll take a look—" Lars stood to his feet and ambled into the bathroom on the far side of the room. James turned his head to me and showed me a thoughtful smile.

"So I heard you and, uh—" He nodded his head back towards the wall behind him. "—the song that closed the Iroquois nation had a little moment in Jersey."

"Yeah, I just hadn't seen him in a few days," I confessed.

"So you gave him a couple of kisses."

"Well, I won't deny it."

I could see it in James' blue eyes. He had opened up to me after Cliff's passing and yet I had made my way to Joey instead. Add to this, I had the possibility of Frankie, too.

"I still like you, though," I pointed out to him.

"I like you, too. I can't stop thinking about when we were sitting there in the Bronx and having coffee together."

"Just the two of us," I recalled.

"Just the two of us," he reiterated.

"I think it's just the feeling around us that I couldn't resist it, though," I admitted. James shook his head.

"Hey, you know, if it was me, I'd do the same." He nibbled on his bottom lip. I watched his tongue slither out from his lips. In hindsight, I wish I had done something for him right there given I wasn't wearing anything other than my bathrobe, but then again, Lars padded out of the bathroom with a clean fluffy white towel for me.

"Aw, thank you! Also, is Dave here?"

Lars hesitated in repose, and then his face lit up.

"Yes! Yes, he is." He showed me a mischievous grin. "Why?"

"Just curious." I flashed a momentary glance over at James who showed me a mischievous grin himself. It was that twinkle in his eye that I knew he wanted me more than ever.

I thanked Lars again and sauntered out of there. As I stood out there in the hallway, I ruffled my hair with the towel. I hung there next to their door for a moment. But then I caught a glimpse of something on the carpet from underneath the towel. I lowered the towel onto my face and peered over the folds at what I saw there.

Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. Or maybe it was the real thing. But after the sight in the hallway in New Jersey, I could take no chances whatsoever. I knew what it was even on a spot on the somewhat dirty carpet five feet away from me.

Blood. Blood there on the carpet.

The King of Hearts is here, and he's after for all of our asses.

I should probably give James another cup of coffee, because I don't know...


	37. The one where it's not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"I never should have unzipped myself;  
>  I could've continued to see through the eyes.   
> The eyes, the eyes of my body double.  
> I don't want to touch feel taste;   
> I don't want to breath in this waste.  
> Let me rot in peace."_  
> -"#iwokeuplikethis", Butcher Babies
> 
>  _"Sheltered life innocence,  
>  insulated memories, spark reflections of my head.  
> Duality in my consciousness,   
> caught in the war of hemispheres,   
> between the love lost in my head."_  
> -"Nothing to Gein", Mudvayne

( _Charlotte's note: another letter? Well, who could this be from now?_ )

Christina—

I have a confession to make to you, and I do not mean to frighten you in any sort of way possible now. But I must come closer to you and Cecilia before the time runs out. All the smell of blood is getting to me. The blood of Cliff on the Swedish roadways and the blood in New Jersey is growing to be quite the aromatic for me. It's all proving to be just enough for me to want to pen this to you.

I almost want to play a game with you. A game of how fast can we run into the heart of the Big Apple. I watch your flesh as well as the flesh of all of those men whom of which are taking you all over the Northeast here.

Joseph and James. All of those raven black curls and those golden blond tresses, that smooth looking brown flesh and that pallid white skin. Perfect, slightly plump healthy skin for such young men. I have met too many young men with horrid skin that they look like they're about to go sickly on us all, too much like corpses. Some prudes have taken to their skin like cow's leather and it's up for me to decide to please us all with the power of good health. But they are on the right track. Such beautiful men they are, and if only the other hallowed souls of the world can sense their beauty as much as you and I do.

I miss the feminine principle in my life. I'm feeling too pressed to impress. I am weary of impressing others out there. Perhaps this is why I have flown out into the darkest of shadows and leaving a labyrinth for Olivia and her colleagues in my wake. It's all so simple and so easy that I am beginning to regret everything in a sense that I am willing to bring it all to a brand new chapter of the world.

Can’t believe the old days were better than these are now—I was too optimistic that the future would get in groove and get somewhere.

You know "this" and "shit" spell the same thing sometimes. Sometimes when I hear your poetry crooning into the rafters of the concert halls I feel your enunciation upon your sadness, the melancholy to your voice, and I can't help but feel that you have something troubling you. If those men are ever giving you trouble, know that I have my blade on hand to give that healthful skin a good exsanguination of sorts.

I feel your fear: it's palpable. I think back to when you and Cecilia were in Seattle and you found my mark on the window at your school. In retrospect, I literally couldn't tell if it was a picture or the real thing. It's funny, you know.

I think of that one letter that that other young man sent to you, Frank. Is that his name? Oh, talk about a beauty. I have this desire to pin his beauty up on a little piece of wood the size of a bread basket.

You know what he looks like with his voluptuous nappy black hair streaming on either side of his head onto his shoulders? He looks like a dog I used to have once.

You mustn't tell anyone about this, not Olivia, not Cecilia, not Clara, not Joseph or James, not a soul. You must withhold this in between the two of us.

My childhood dog, this small black Cavalier King Charles spaniel whom I had named by coincidence Frankie, was the best dog. Yet I couldn't help myself with the butcher knife one day. His ears had such a soft gentle texture them that I wanted to keep it for myself. I let them bleed out before I made some makeshift rabbit's foot with them. So far, the dog ears have not let me down in my quest in making art out of flesh.

Frank's black hair reminds me of Frankie's fear. My hope and prayer is that he has no apprehension.

We use paints and papers and canvases for art. We are basically using the flesh and blood of the earth to make our own creations—why not use ourselves? Why not use the power of the heart, the physical heart, for paint? For bringing life to something for the sake of death.

And it's something about soft things, be it a dog's fur or a young woman's breasts or a young man's black curls, that brings such a rush of blood to my head. I must have it all. I must have that softness, the palpable feeling of the heart on hand so as to make my creations.

You have the power of your voice and the prowess of your pen to bring it forth. And in a way, I feel similar with my own world.

I hope to see you soon in the Big Apple. I will find more blood to paint my picture for you.

I have been following both you and Cecilia since day one. Ever since that day in the park wherein you revealed yourself to the world for the first time. You are soft and vulnerable, and I must have it.

( _Charlotte's note: it's unsigned. But I don't need a signature_.)


	38. The one with hockey jerseys and Black Sabbath

_December 1, 1986._

Oh, how I have missed New York City. We went through here a few times before but neither time have I felt better going through it and then camping out in the hotel. Ceecee, Clara, and I are right in between Anthrax and James' rooms; right across the hall from us are Kirk and Jason, and then the boys from Nuclear Assault and Overkill.

I don't, however, miss that letter I had received from underneath my hotel room door this morning. I wanted to burn it, just torch it with the little candle on the shelf, but I also wonder if this could prove to be a bit of help for my mom when we return home to Seattle in the next week or so.

I don’t know what the King of Hearts could do to Joey and James if the secret got out. The secret that this serial killer wants me all for himself.

_(Charlotte’s note: rereading that note made my skin crawl so much. And yet it comes as no surprise that Christina kept it a secret this whole time_.)

When we checked into the rooms earlier, I looked on at Joey and Scott congregated there at the stairs, just chatting about things. The former had on a snug black leather jacket over a blue and white hockey jersey, while the latter had on the same fitted denim jeans torn at the knees as when we first came here to the Northeast.

I just watched them speak to each other for a moment; I wanted to hear them in their low voices laced with their New Yorker accents, but alas, I made a vow to myself to buy James another cup of coffee after I called my mom again.

Even the King of Hearts didn’t want me to tell anyone about the letter, I needed to phone it back to her. I sat there on the edge of the bed across the thin patch of floor from Ceecee; Clara took her seat there at the table with her cane firmly in hand.

I wondered what was the worst thing that could happen to us at that moment. We were surrounded by boys, on either side of us, and there was no way the King of Hearts could be that psychic, either. It just made no sense to me.

I never told either of them as I dialed her number.

I got the machine.

“Hi, Mom—I just wanted to say that we got here to New York in one piece. I also have something for you when we get back to Seattle. Cees, Clara, and the boys all give their love, too. Love you.”

As I hung up, I looked over at the puzzled expression on Ceecee’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she quipped.

“No, you look like you wanna tell me something. What?”

“Just thinking about that moment you had with Joey back in Jersey.”

I rolled my eyes at that.

“Yeah, you’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” I teased her.

“Honestly, it doesn’t get any more rockstar than that,” Clara joined in. “Just the description of it anyways.”

“You know it’s only a matter of time before he lends you his hockey jersey to sleep in,” Ceecee cracked.

A knock on the door caught our attention and Ceecee stood to her feet to answer it.

“Oh, hi, James! How goes it?”

“Well, first of all—“ he started as he stepped into the room. “—Kirk and Jason wanna talk to you, Ceecee.”

“Oh? What about?”

“Dunno, they didn’t say.”

Ceecee left the room and ducked across the hall to their room. Clara was about to stand up herself when James set his hand on her shoulder.

“Nah, you don’t have to go anywhere, Clara,” he insisted. “I did however come here to speak with Chris, though.”

She adjusted her grip on her cane as James made his way to the edge of the bed and took his seat next to me.

“What’d you wanna talk about?” I asked him as Black Sabbath’s song “N. I. B.” blared out from Metallica’s room across the hall.

“The night in Jersey,” he said. “I didn’t like how you and him were in the hallway full of blood.”

Of course he didn’t. It was a dangerous situation but neither of us could help it.

I glanced down at his right hand right next to the side of my thigh: Cliff’s silver skull ring glimmered in the dim light.

“And when I say that I mean I wonder if you and I can make things happen between us,” he continued. “You know—before that’s the blood of one of us spilling out through the vents and the trimming of the floor.”

“Sounds like James is taking a bit of jealousy to you, Chris,” Clara teased me.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll admit it,” he pressed on, exasperated. “I am a bit jealous of Joey, but just ‘cause—“

He paused.

“Just ‘cause what?” I asked him.

“Just ‘cause I like you, too. And I have my worries for those reasons. Either one of us could wind up like Cliff or with our hearts torn out of our chests and left to bleed.”

James turned his head for a look at Clara. She couldn’t see us, but I knew he still had to make sure. He sighed through his nose as he loomed in closer to my face, to my lips. This lonely boy, lonelier than Joey in fact, drifted in closer to my face for a kiss.

Where Joey was soft and silky like an Iroquois sunrise through fog, James was firm and demanding like the gutters of Los Angeles. And yet I wanted to feel myself engulfed by his power.

I closed my eyes as a piece of his golden hair trickled down onto my shoulder. He was strong and resilient, like a lion, like a king. I felt his hands run up my back, up my shirt to the hook on my bra. I tried to keep my breathing down lest Clara hear either of us.

I wanted to keep quiet as James moved his lips to the side of my neck and onto my collar bones. I ran my fingers through his blond waves cascading off of the back of his head.

Here we were making love to Black Sabbath in downtown New York City with a serial killer after us, and yet neither of us had any care about him from that point out. As James made his way onto my chest, I opened my eyes to find Clara nodding her head and smiling at us.

The door swung open and James lifted his head from my breasts; Ceecee bustled into the room with an excited look upon her face.

“Kirk wants to cover ‘N. I. B.’ with me!” she said with glee and a stoop down to her guitar case. As she picked out of her case, she turned to us with a baffled look on her face.

“What happened?”

“You don’t wanna know,” James insisted.

“Maybe I do.”

“I’ll tell ya later, Cees,” I promised to her. She flashed me a mischievous smirk and a wink before she headed out of the room and back across the hall.


	39. The one with old records and a show

_December 1, 1986_.

Another day that deserves two entries because what a day!

( _Charlotte's note: oh boy!_ )

We pretty much lost ourselves in the heart of New York City. First off, Charlie drove us to his and Frankie's old neighborhood up in the Bronx, and they showed us the apartment complex they both grew up in. This towering but shabby looking building of dark heavy bricks and a low, partially collapsed stairwell leading up to the front doors. They even led us up to their old unit. Someone else already lived there, but Charlie told us it was this small apartment with only three bedrooms: he and Frankie shared one, while his five sisters shared another one. This big Italian family crammed into such a tiny little box of a place, and he and Frankie bonded over horror novels, comic books, Kiss, The Beatles, and Led Zeppelin. Frankie said they were the closest thing to brothers as they could come—indeed, they even fought like brothers.

They took us to the record shop where the two of them found The White Album for the first time—sure enough, we found an exact copy of the vinyl of The White Album in the exact spot as Charlie did when he was about twelve years old! Right underneath the front window where they saw Kiss for the first time.

Shortly thereafter, Lars, Jason, Scott, and Frankie treated us to a Nuclear Assault show at this funky little place called L'Amour: even though it was a nightclub, they let us in because we were part of the touring ensemble. They stood there on this ramshackle little stage and played louder than both Metallica and Anthrax. Clara says it was because we stood at such close proximity to them, but according to Scott, they asked him to leave because he was a little too slack on getting recordings down. But on the other hand, their guitars dripped with distortion and Danny had such a fierce bark of a voice, one that could be heard on the far side of the room—but not the filling out every corner of the room like Joey's voice.

I thought back to everything Frankie had said to me in his letter. And I kept my mind firmly on it as he stood next to me there on the floor.

The crown of my head reached his shoulder, much like how it is with me and James. At one point, I swore he put his arm around my shoulders to hold me, but it was really Scott and Lars trying to look over the crowd at them, and they put their hands on my back as support. Ceecee also wanted to run up there to play guitar with Danny but they had to cut their set short because the bar behind us ran out of drinks.

Anyways, I'll talk more later on—right now, we've got a big fucking show to play!

And my hope is that the King of Hearts will keep his distance from here.


	40. The one that's Canadian

_December 3, 1986_.

Good bye, New York. We'll be back soon. I promise.

But Ceecee took a bunch of pictures of Niagara Falls on the bus ride and so I know we'll be back into it before either of us know it. Joey kept his hand on my knee the whole way into the Great White North. Even as I started writing this entry, his fingers crawled over the top of my thigh and my knee. I can't get that image out of my mind, or the one where we were in the hallway in New Jersey.

Up ahead of us, Frankie put his arm around Clara's shoulders and held her close to him. To think he wrote that letter to me without Clara herself knowing. I nibbled on my bottom lip as Joey tickled my knee a bit with the tips of his fingers. I looked across the aisle at James and Lars there before the window: the former had fallen asleep with his head leaning against the edge of the window. It was sunny for about an hour on the road, the first time it had been sunny the whole entire time we were here on the East Coast: the sun shone down on James' blond hair to make it resemble a crown or a lion's mane.

It took us a little while to get into Montreal granted that we all just barely got our passports, and Clara had a moment with her cane at the gates into the country. This was the first time either of us left the country. Either of us. Canada always felt like an unknown to me, even with it being just to the north of us, a mere stone's throw away from Seattle.

But as we stepped off of the bus, I stared up at the graying sky and felt the breeze through my hair. I stood in between Ceecee and James, and we stood perfectly still on the curb together. I felt his hand on mine: his fingers danced around the back of my hand and down on the backs of my knuckles. He was about to grip onto my hand when Scott strode up to us to help us out with our things into the hotel.

We made our way to the backstage area of the theater; once I had my spot there on the top of the speaker case, I set up my guitar and prepared to warm up. I strummed my guitar and sang to myself when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I looked up to find James right there towering above me.

"Hi," I greeted him. He ran his fingers through his blond hair and then gestured for me to follow him to the other side. I set down my guitar and then looked around to see if anyone watched us: we were alone there. And so I followed him to the other side of the tapestry backing up Anthrax's set.

I caught the sound of Motorhead as we reached the side of the stage. But not even the sound of Lemmy's raspy voice could cover James from me. He lunged for me and pressed me against the pillar with such a firm grip on my wrists. He pressed his lips to mine.

I was so stunned by it that I could hardly move or change positions there on the floor before him. I had nowhere to go: he had me pinned to the wall. He let go of my lips and stared hard into my eyes.

"I want you to bite me," he whispered.

"Bite you? Why would I wanna bite you?"

He breathed harder. I froze right there.

"Touch me—" he begged me.

I stood still as he brought his lips back to mine. I could feel his warmth up against my body and his fingers loosening around my wrists.

"Touch me," he pleaded. "Please, touch me."

My lip trembled. I had nothing, no sign to take me away from him. I had to do something. This boy, this blond boy who lost his friend not even a couple of months ago feeling more at discontent than myself.

"Chris—Chris, please—I need you—"

I closed my eyes and lingered in closer to his face. It was all I could do right then.

"You and I are both fucked up. We're both crazy. We're both lonely. Death is all around us. Please, please—"

I could feel his lips pressing onto mine. Ever so lightly brushing onto the skin.

"Kiss me—kiss me—"

I don't remember anything after that. It was as though I had blacked out for about an hour and then Ceecee and I went onstage to perform before an international audience. But even as I sang into the microphone and played along with her, I could still taste James on my lips and I could still feel his hands interlocking with mine. I yearned for Joey but I needed to protect James.

And now that I look over the letter that the King of Hearts had sent me before we stopped in New York City once again, I realize that I have to protect both of these men. Relish every caress from Joey and listen to every cry for help from James. Come close with the both of them, and I know Ceecee is doing the same with Kirk and Jason, as are Clara, Frankie, and Charlie. The three of us have to be in the same bed with them because every kiss and every song could be our last.

I have to keep this letter under wraps, at least until we get home.

My hope is that when we get home, I'll be protected once again by the police and by the exploratory powers of my mom. My hope is the King of Hearts will follow us home, and not the two of them.

But then I remember that James is down in California while Joey is in upstate New York. He has to pick just one, and seeing as most of the death has happened there in Seattle, he must follow the blood money if he wants something from me and Ceecee.


	41. The one where it really isn't

Christina—

do you really think I am unable to see where you and your whole posse is running off to in the Great White North? Sure. You are on the other side of the border. I'm here in the United States with nothing more than the clothes on my back and the tools on my belt.

You're surrounded by the glamour of the rock star life. You're moving from place to place there in Canada.

But you're going to have to return at some point.

Have you ever tasted blood, Christina? Have you ever cut your lip on a silver cloud so hard that you have to taste your own blood? Have you ever bit down just a little too hard on your tongue that you taste it for a few weeks?

There's no denying it on my end. The first time I tasted my own blood was the first time I felt alive. That rush of blood to my tongue sent me flying.

Do you know what it feels like? The richness of iron, the heavy healthy feeling of fatty acids… the metallic feel of it all. We're all full of metal. We're all so full of metal that we feel the need to put it out there in the open in the form of drums and guitars and two poor men wailing in agony. We're all so full of metal that it sends us into a frenzy, a whirlwind of long hair and sweat.

“This” and “shit” still spell the same sometimes. This shit that I'm about to smear you with. This shit that I smeared my first blood with once I removed her heart and drank from her poisoned chalice.

( _Charlotte's note: “drank”?!_ )

You know it's okay to be insecure and spit on people. I need you to let people taste you. Taste you before I do. Taste you and Joseph and James before I do. Let them all be my litmus test, my guinea pigs. Humanity consists of guinea pigs after all: we fell subject to the plague, cholera, the Spanish flu, smallpox, polio, and now it's that immune virus. We are literal guinea pigs, falling subject to diseases to test our stamina and to bring a breath of fresh air to Mother Earth herself. We are literal guinea pigs.

But not you.

Not my sister golden hair.

I'm sure you've heard that song before, “Sister Golden Hair”, just by hearing your performances here all around the Eastern Seaboard. You seem to have that influence alongside you, that subtle little Bob Dylan inside of you just waiting to crawl out with his electric guitar. I hear him in your voice. The melancholia, the humility, all of it. You're the female Bob Dylan with her golden hair.

My sister golden hair riding on her horse with no name throughout America, hahaha.

( _Charlotte's note: ...he actually wrote “hahaha”…_ )

The power of music, I swear to you. It brings us together and speaks volumes even if you don't speak the language of the writing.

My wish is to paint with humanity and wonder what exactly bridges us to the soul of music. The soul, power, and majesty of nature itself.

I used to say fuck anyone who isn't alive to bear witness to the Mt. St. Helens eruption. But I was dumb then. I've grown so much since that time. I've found my own personal Mt. St. Helens, my own magma chamber to blow off my cap. And her name is Christina, shining high and bright like the full moon as her name so rightfully declares.

You know the moon is a loyal friend to us all. She never leaves us, even as we're laying on the porch of the hotel room all by our lonesome. She never leaves, even as unbeknownst to us, we're leaving ourselves vulnerable and out in the open. You are most yourself when you're alone, when all eyes are away from you. You are most yourself in the presence of the moon.

Thus, I am most myself with the moon. I am most myself with you.

Let me ask you, Christina, do you like Johnny Cash? I ask because you hang out with two men who wear a lot of black. You hang out with more than two men who wear a lot of black. The simultaneous arrogance and modesty of black, and Johnny knew it. Johnny knew it even as he bled over his guitar and onto the stage and over the masses.

I am most myself with you, bleeding my heart to you. I want to feel your heart bleeding. I want to witness it. To taste it on my lips. I must taste you.

I must paint with the blood in your veins.

( _Charlotte's note: oh my gracious God_.)

I must paint with the blood in my veins…

( _Charlotte's note: OH. MY. GOD._ )

I am bleeding for you, Christina. I watched you slice your wrist with a razor blade and I did the exact same with my largest knife. I should show you this knife when you return to the country. The blade is massive, about the size of Joseph's head, and sharp enough to whack off those regal black ringlets draped on the back of his head as well as cut his throat, and then remove James' tongue, one right after the other. In one fell swoop.

( _Charlotte's note: I think I'm gonna be sick. Oh my Lord._ )

This is our knife, Christina. The knife to get those two men, as well as their camaraderie and anyone who gets in our way. Yes, this is ours.

You are my last blood. The one I thirst for the most. When I paint with the blood in your veins, it will be clear that you are with me at all times. You are my last. My last and always with her heart in my hands and her flesh returned to the earth to twin the moon once again.

See you soon.


	42. The one with Iggy Pop, candied pineapple, and root beer

_December 21, 1986_.

So it's been about a week since we got home here to Seattle and so far, nothing has happened to either me or Ceecee in terms of what the King of Hearts said to me in his last letter. I have spent the past week trying to uncover the best way in how to cope with and conquer the fears I have now with this man, this person, this thing I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT IT IS!

( _Charlotte's note: oh my gosh_ )

I think it's best if I start from when we came back and see where I go from there.

Ceecee, Clara, and I returned to the United States on the bus jamming together with Kirk, Scott, and Charlie, the latter of whom set up this little portable drum kit so he could do percussion for us. Kirk and Scott started playing “Lust for Life” by Iggy Pop some time around Niagara Falls and Ceecee and I followed along with them. I recall Lars telling us that if we really wanted to expand our sound better and get an idea as to how to perform, we should be taking more notes from Iggy.

And then he offered us some candied pineapple, which we snacked on all the way throughout upstate New York.

There was just something about being on that bus with the sun shining down on us and the sky as big and blue as I had ever seen it anywhere—and I have a few memories of being little in northern Nevada and looking up at the hugeness of the light blue over my head. Except there upstate I had vast swaths of forest on barren dark earth either side of me and the City itself looming in the windshield, whereas in Reno and Carson City I had the desert to the east and the hulking Sierra Nevadas holding up Lake Tahoe. But there on that bus, I felt safe.

Even in the wake of the bus accident that killed Cliff in Sweden back in September, I hunkered there across the aisle from Kirk and Scott with the guitar cradled in my lap and with Ceecee there next to me. Joey and James were to the left of me watching us, while Frankie and Clara nestled down in the seat next to Ceecee: he had his arm around her the whole way back to New York City.

At one point, I looked up at him and he showed me a shy little smile. I really do like Frankie, but more in terms of how I would like as my best friend. He even gave a toast to both me and Ceecee before we stepped off the bus and headed into the airport.

I was reluctant to try some champagne and yet I managed to drink down a little glass of it as part of my bidding farewell to him for a while.

I gave everyone in Anthrax and Nuclear Assault hugs all around—Joey was, not surprisingly, my favorite hug because he held the back of my head to his chest and bowed his head so some of his black curls sprawled over me. It was like he was protecting me: he was the warmest I had ever felt him before.

He also leaned into my ear and whispered, “don't tell your mother”, and then he planted a kiss on the side of my neck.

Moreover, James did the exact same thing with me. Exact same thing, even the “don't tell your mother” into my ear part of it. The sole difference was we were in our stop over in Kansas City as opposed to New York City.

I already want to write back to Joey.

I have always been honest about this, but I worry about him, and I especially worry him now at the moment with the King of Hearts and his... desires. How much he doesn't care about human life, no matter who were are: this stone cold killer will stop at nothing until our blood is spilled onto the ground.

I'm sitting here with a glass of root beer and thinking about both him and James.

I kind of miss the road, like I miss performing in front of people—standing out there on the stage in front of that canvas Charlie painted for us and singing in that chanteuse voice by Dave's blessing. But it's the souls I miss the most. The men who befriended us and brought us into the fold as one of their own.

And there are the two men who saw us as more than three girls from Seattle, who saw me as more than the writer who hadn't exactly come in touch with herself upon meeting them.

Every time I hear a new report about some kind of incident of some sort, a new death, a new rouse of deaths, I wonder how they're both doing right now. The King of Hearts is thirsty for more blood and it's palpable with every day and every news report. I wonder if they're alright and if they're healthy and doing what they can to keep themselves out of the line of fire. At the same time, I wonder if they're thinking of me.

I need to write to Joey again.


	43. The third letter to Joey

( _Charlotte's note: without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful letter she had written to him… yet_.)

Joey—

Forgive me if this is too soon, but I've been missing you like crazy as of late, ever since we returned home. I miss your touch and your warmth.

There have been a few more murders here, and they get more and more gruesome each time. Mom finally got the chance to develop a good enough profile of the King of Hearts to where she can write about him. Until then, she always had a shitload of notes that never seemed to be going anywhere for her.

Also, I didn't tell anyone about this—I didn't even tell Ceecee this—but the King of Hearts sent me two letters while we were touring in New York. I don't want you to tell anyone about it, either, because my worry is that he could track you down and kill you.

I wish I could show you the full text because it's freaky as all hell on Earth.

He wants to kill you and James.

He wants to cut your throat and rid you of your long beautiful black hair.

So I need to tell you that I love you. I need to tell you because I could lose you tomorrow. I could lose you overnight.

I love you and want you with me so much again.

My mom made a joke that you're looking a little too skinny as of late, so the next time we see one another, we're gonna feed you the biggest dinner of your life. I'm gonna fill your tummy. I'm gonna give you every inch of my love. I'm gonna give you every kiss from my lips and every caress from my fingers on your beautiful body.

I have to admit, I can't seem to stop thinking about when we were in the hallway there in Jersey with all of the blood running down the walls. It was so hot. Feeling the adrenaline in my veins and the adrenaline in yours, right there through the palms of my hands.

It was that rush. That rush of the transience of the tour stops and the danger lingering over our heads.

I feel your fear, Joey, and I hope you can feel mine. I need you under my hands again.

I wrote a poem about Cliff this morning but I never shared it with anyone. I call it “Orion's Belt”:

_Orion had removed his belt and gave it to you._

_They told you to jump but you asked how high._

_The cold earth filled a hole to leave them all feeling blue._

_You had the sweet caress of gold,_

_the effervescent spirit of the Renaissance,_

_but somehow left a whole world untold._

_Choose three or five,_

_the former is unspoken,_

_the latter is buried alive._

_The ashes of your soul echoing within remain,_

_without a trace of silence and a battered friend,_

_and without an ounce of steel Swedish rain_.

I wish I could go any further than that. But it's all I can do at the moment, because I'm here on the West Coast and you're there in upstate New York.

The darkness is filling out and crawling over us even more as we near the solstice. I hope we can feel out and ride out the darkness together even with all of the death around us.

I hope I don't frighten you with all of this, but I can't help but feel afraid of all of this.

I want nothing more than to touch you and feel you, and to hear your voice again, you beautiful man.

All of my love,

Chris


	44. The one with the mistletoe

_December 24, 1986_.

There's a sprig of mistletoe hanging down from the ceiling in the hallway, and every time I take a look at it, I always think of Joey and James both. I'm not sure where it came from: I only know Mom hung it up there a couple of nights ago when she and I were decorating the house for Christmas. With every sight of it, I think of their lips, of Joey's darkness and James' golden sunshine. It really is like day and night with the two of them.

I need the both of them here with me. It's going to drive me absolutely nuts if I get no response from either of them. It is Christmas Eve after all. I have to do something, anything. Granted, I did write to Joey not even a few days ago, but I want to hear his voice. I have to hear his voice. That soft gentle Italian American voice rubbing against the side of my mind…

( _Charlotte's note: I feel like I have heard his voice before now that I think about it._ )

I just got off the phone with Joey. This is how it went between the both of us:

“I just read your letter, Chris,” he told me with a clearing of his throat; he sounded sick, like he had a head cold of some sort. I even asked him about it and he said he woke up that morning with a sore throat. But he assured me he was taking good care of himself with a glass of water every so often.

“Let me just say I was touched by your ode to Cliff,” he confessed with another clearing of his throat. “When I go to see Frankie in a few days, I'll share it with him. I know he'll love it.”

“You oughta rest, though,” I suggested to him.

“I am resting,” he insisted with a slight cough. “I have the sniffles right now.”

I giggled at that. There's something about a cute boy like him saying something like that.

( _Charlotte's note: reminds me of another boy I used to know. He was cute like Joey himself now—and yes, by cute, I mean very vulnerable like him_.)

“Joey—” I started as I twirled the phone cord around my finger. I glanced up at the end of the ceiling to find that sprig hanging down from the tile.

“Yeah?”

“There's a bit of mistletoe on the ceiling right now,” I admitted to him.

“You wanna kiss me, don't you,” he said in a soft voice.

“That is if you wanna kiss me,” I teased him.

“I do wanna kiss you.” He fell silent for a moment and then he spoke again. “I can't stop thinking about that night after Cliff was killed and we had that—that—that interesting conversation.”

“Oh, when we were—?”

“Yeah. Kinda wanna do it again, to be honest.”

“Now, why would you wanna do it again? You're sick.”

“I ain't that sick—” There was a rustling sound on his end like he was covering himself up with a heavy blanket.

“I wanna like—I dunno.”

“What?”

“Make you soup. Hot cocoa.”

“Hot cocoa with those little marshmallows in there,” he corrected me.

“Little marshmallows or one of those big fat ones you'd roast over a campfire or something?”

“Little ones. I can see one of those big ones sucking up the cocoa like a sponge.”

“A sponge to clean up your mess?” I teased him.

“My mess? What do you think I am, a little boy?”

“Yes!”

( _Charlotte's note: yes!_ )

“You, James, and Frankie are like boys. All of you are like boys.”

“Probably 'cause we are?” That got a laugh out of him.

“Well, I wanna take care of you, though,” I insisted to him.

“Yeah, but—”

“What?”

“You're there and I'm here. How are you supposed to take care of me if you're there and I'm here?”

“The fact you and I found each other should be something,” I chided.

“It's more than something,” he confessed in a breathy voice. “Oh, by the way—Lars' birthday is on the twenty sixth. Not tomorrow, but the day after Christmas.”

“Aw, happy early birthday Lars,” I said.

“Do you have his number?”

“I do! I'll give him a ring in a bit.”

“Would you still wanna touch me even with my sick head?” he asked me.

“I'd kiss your sick forehead.”

“Just there?”

“Unless you want a little kiss on your tummy.”

“Just there?”

“Joey—”

“What?”

“Joey—”

“What? What?”

I nibbled on my bottom lip. I knew what he was getting at here.

“I ain't doing that until you're feeling better.”

“Come on, baby doll.”

“No, you're sick. I don't wanna get sick.”

“Come on, kissing me there won't get ya sick.”

“What if you cough on me?”

“I won't. I'll just lay here on my back and let you let me have it 'cause I've been a bad boy.”

“How have you been a bad boy?”

“'Cause I'm letting a healthy girl blow me.”

“Now, now, if you really were a bad boy for that, I'd give your butt a good spanking. I'd also bite you.”

“Why you wanna bite everything, Chris.”

“'Cause biting's fun. And it's never hard, either.”

I don't recall anything else he said to me but this went on for like ten minutes before he told me he needed something to clear out his throat better. Yeah, I've been picturing him in the shower for the last five minutes. The water running over the contours of his body, down his collar bones, and his chest, and his stomach, and his hip bones…

And then James called me to tell me about Lars. We chatted a little bit. And then he said this to me:

“What I would do to kiss you under some mistletoe right now.”

“James, there's some mistletoe right above my head right now.”

“God—I wanna kiss you.”

Let me just say that I have going through all of this in my mind for the past twenty minutes.

I vowed to write to James again, not just for Christmas but for the same reason I wrote to Joey.


	45. The third letter to James

James—

It's early Christmas morning as I'm writing this. Quite early in fact—there's no light yet outside.

Just my flash light and the streetlight out on the sidewalk.

I'm laying in bed at the moment with nothing more than the rain on the roof overhead.

It's Christmas and I want nothing more than to kiss you under that sprig of mistletoe.

I want you. I want you!

I take back the feeling I have for Joey and I give it to you.

You're the one I want. All of your long legs and every bit that makes you everything I could ever ask for in a man.

Your golden blond hair twinning my platinum blonde.

You are everything. You are everything and nothing.

I want you. I need you.

I hope we can tour again soon—I know we will but I'm dying for some more of it, though.

I want to get close to you again.

All my love,

Chris

( _Charlotte's note: brevity is the soul of wit, I guess?_ )


	46. The one that's a bloody mess

_December 31, 1986_.

Happy birthday to Scott! I hope the New Year is incredible, not just for you but for all the guys and for all of us here in Seattle. If only I could send him something like what Clara and I did for Joey's birthday.

At about three thirty in the morning, I awoke after having an odd dream. I lay there in bed with my eyes closed for a few moments. I opened my eyes to be met with the darkness all around me. I closed my eyes again; I was just laying there in the bed thinking about Joey and James. I almost don't even want to choose between the two of them. I can't choose between them.

But it's not all fun and games, though, especially when I fell asleep again. I woke up again this morning to my mom talking on the phone with a bit of a tremble to her voice. I climbed out of bed to find she was on the phone with Ceecee.

This couldn't be good.

I headed into the next room to find her hunched over the phone and a hand clasped to her mouth. She lifted her gaze to me and the tears in her eyes were enough to give me a clue.

“Okay—Okay, I'll tell her, don't worry. We'll be there soon enough. You and Clara just sit tight for a little bit.” She sniffled and hung up the phone.

“What happened?” I asked her as I rubbed my eyes. She brushed away a tear.

“Ceecee and Clara's mom died.”

“What.” I could hardly muster the right words.

“Last night. She was over in Ellensburg trying to tend to a well that she owned.”

“Why—” It made no sense. “Wait. When did they own a well?”

“She owned property there. It's something I've uncovered while investigating the murders.”

She reached for a tissue next to her and dabbed her eyes.

“She went there to check on it,” she explained, “check on the water. It was yesterday, around the middle of the day—Ceecee said she went over there to fetch some groceries because of all of the incidents here in Seattle. She went over there because she was afraid. She locked the door and she told the two of them to stay on guard until she returned home.”

“And—she never did,” I followed along, and she shook her head with her eyes closed.

“The King of Hearts was supposedly nearby, because he killed the family next door to the property, so she had to hurry. The bucket came loose from the rope and she went down to reconnect it. As she climbed down, the rope unraveled and broke. She fell down the well—” Mom's voice broke right there, and I put two and two together and the nausea welled up within me when the realization sank over me.

No way out.

“—they never retrieved her from the well waters, either,” she continued in a near whisper.

“He killed the family next door to there,” I recalled in a soft voice.

“That's according to the police report, yes,” she continued. “They showed up there at the well after Ceecee called them to say that she hadn't come home by nightfall. The house nearby the well had been—ransacked and raided. And the elderly couple and their grandchildren had been—massacred. The head officer said there was just—blood everywhere.”

Mom dabbed her eyes again.

“He also added they found this odd diamond shape on the inside of the bay window—in the master bedroom,” she added. “It looked like it was made out of blood, and it reminded him of the spade at the school.” The spade. The ace of spades. Metallica, Anthrax, and Black Moon, together in death.

“In fact—there was a bit of text on the inside of the diamond,” she continued with a sniffle and a reach to her left for a notepad. She gazed on at the writing there with a glazed over look on her eyes; “it said—'remember the last. Just call my name and I'll hear you scream. Bring the world down to his knees.'”

She hesitated and gazed up at me.

“So—Ceecee and Clara are alone right now?” I asked her.

“They are,” she wept with another dab to her eye. “I told Ceecee that we would be there soon enough.”

A family died. My best friends lost their mother.

Can I go back to the good feeling I had experienced at three thirty in the morning there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Master of Puppets and Among the Living there!


	47. The one with the dance of the dead

_December 31, 1986/January 1, 1987_.

( _Charlotte's note: sometimes I wonder if, when the letters from the King of Hearts himself is taken into account, there really was a concerted effort to track him down. He seems to be like one of those entities who knows how to clean up after he makes such a bloody mess of himself there at the crime scenes. An entity. Some kind of monster that stalked Chris and her posse. It actually makes sense to me now that she wouldn't confess it to anyone after the fact. Not because of her relationship with Joey and James or because of the whole “keep it confidential” tidbit surrounding a criminal case, but because she wanted to protect them. Any words to slip out deemed setting them all into danger. Needless to say, I am utterly stunned that she was able to write these things down in her journal and keep them under wraps. The protection surrounding her journal also makes legitimate sense now, which makes me wonder... if Chris protected her journal after all these years, surely there has to be a better reason for it. Surely she has to have gone to great lengths to ensure the safety of herself, Ceecee, Clara, Olivia, and the boys. If he really was that determined, there must be something more here. But what?_ )

Another day that deserves a double entry because it's just so gloriously messed up that my best friends lost their mother in a freak accident caused by the King of Hearts. This guy needs to be profiled and tracked down because it's either going to be me or Ceecee or Clara to go next.

I just know it. I feel it.

Mom and I just came back from their house: Ceecee was a mess. Clara cradled her cane in her lap and kept her head bowed. Even with the dark shades protecting her eyes, I could sense the tears there. Granted, we're all adults here, but it kills me to think about it.

Their parents are gone.

I asked Ceecee if she wanted anything and she shook her head. It's so weird to see her remain so silent: she just sat there on the couch wearing her miniskirt and some accompanying bright pink tights, and the neck of her guitar leaned back against the arm of the couch. It felt so out of place and so odd, and yet nothing could deny the empty expression upon her face. The tears brimming her eyes.

Mom talked to Clara about what happened, and the whole entire time I couldn't help but think back to September when Cliff was killed. Joey had called me a mere few hours before hand, and James called me after the fact. It all makes me sick to think about.

I phased out most of what Clara said because I was trying to process all of it myself. I thought about calling James and Joey and telling them what had happened, but I remembered New York is three hours ahead of us—it was eight thirty by the time we arrived at the house and add to this, it being New Year's Eve, I had no idea if either of them were home. I knew Ceecee was going to call Kirk and Jason when she found the time, but one of us had to break it to everyone.

Add to this, we're going on tour again. Which means we're not only going to have another opportunity to hide ourselves from all of this, but neither of them are going to have much time to process any of this. We're playing up at the Arena on the second and then we're heading down to San Francisco on the fifth, and then we're going to Denmark on the eighth. Granted, we're going to be clear across the Atlantic, but we're going to be so far away from home, though.

There are so many things about this that I don't understand, but the one thing that I don't understand is why the hell—of all people in Seattle to stalk and track down and profile and whatnot, the King of Hearts is patterning all of his victims after me.

So happy new year to all of us. Happy New Year, and I know Mrs. Blackwood would want the three of us to be happy, especially with the opportunity we've been given with Metallica and Anthrax. But I know we’re going to have be extra cautious at the show in a couple of nights. My hope is no one gets shoved down a well or ends up bloody and broken outside of the venue.

Lest we dance with the dead under the black moon.

I guess the three of us are going to be sisters now. Now and until forever. 

Or at least until one of us winds up as a bloody, brutally slaughtered corpse on the pavement.

( _Charlotte’s note: damn._ )


	48. The one with armored saints and slayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"If we could see tomorrow, what of your plans?  
>  No one can live in sorrow, ask all your friends.  
> Times that you took in stride, they're back in demand;  
> I was the one who was washing blood off your hands."_  
> -"Don't Cry", Guns N' Roses

_January 3, 1987_.

Ceecee, Clara, and I just got home from the Arena—I'm looking at the clock right now and it's almost two in the morning. The feeling was unlike anything else tonight, between having sustained a huge loss with Ceecee and Clara's mother and playing before our home crowd. I compared it to like playing a gig at the school, except there was more people there. I saw so many familiar faces, so many kids I went to school with, so many people who looked on at me and Ceecee with our guitars in our laps with mesmerized looks upon their faces.

She and I both wore all black in honor of the Blackwood name.

Charlie's handmade canvas pinned up behind us shone underneath the red and white lights over our heads. The crown of Ceecee's head shone bright like an actual crown as she kept her eyes pinned to the strings before her.

I had never heard her play like the way she did this evening. It was as if she reached inside of herself and took out a different shade of blue for the black and red around us. I crooned into the microphone and thought of Dave, how he described me as a chanteuse of sorts. This time however, it was for real.

We still hadn't told the boys what had happened, so when I looked over to the side during our cover of “Straight On”, I noticed James and Lars watching us with their arms folded over their chests and frowns on their faces. I spotted a couple of guys behind them whom I didn't recognize all the while.

I almost burst into tears while we performed our original song, and I think that was when they sensed it. My voice crackled and broke near the end, and I felt my throat tightening up.

The Blackwood family are my friends: I lost the mother of my friends; I lost one of my mothers. Of course I wanted to cry right there in front of some few thousand odd people.

Afterwards, as we were letting Metallica gear up for their set, Joey came to me with a concerned look on his face. I could see that the past couple weeks of Christmas had done him some good: even in the dim light, I could see his face had filled out a little bit.

“What's up?” I asked him.

“Is everything alright? You and Cees seemed a little more—I'd say melancholic tonight.”

I turned my head at the sight of Lars picking up his drumsticks and Kirk slinging his guitar over his shoulder. I returned to Joey right as he tugged me away from there so we could hear each other.

“It was pretty sudden,” I told him once we were out of range of their set.

“What was?”

“Did—Clara tell you guys?”

And he shook his head.

“Their mom died—like a few nights ago.”

He gasped and brought a hand to his mouth.

“Oh my fucking God!” He ran his fingers through his black curls and held his hands on either side of his head.

“—what—what—what? What? What—happened?” he could hardly talk.

“She—it just feels odd the more thought I give to it,” I confessed to him.

“Well, what happened?”

“She fell down a well.”

“Oh—” He snapped his eyes shut and turned away from me with a look of disgust on his face.

“Yeah.”

“Oh—God!”

I sniffled and he turned back to me and threw his arms around me. So very thin but the softest, warmest hug I could think of.

He looked into my face with his eyes big and his dark lips parted a bit: I thought he was going to kiss me but he never did. What he did do was push my bangs back so he could better look into my eyes. A strand of pink and another strand of blue hung over my eye: the colors were accentuated by the tears brimming my eyes.

“Don't cry, Chris,” he said to me in a hushed voice. I sniffled again.

“Don't cry. Please, don't cry. Come on, let's go outside—I think Scott and Frankie wanna tell ya somethin'.”

He led me through the corridors to the back door, where we were met with a rush of cool air from the Puget Sound.

January in Seattle.

But we were alone on the back step, like the night in New Jersey.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered.

“What were they gonna tell me, though?”

“We—are doing a new album. Well, maybe you already knew that? But yeah, it's official now. We're in the process of actually recording stuff now.”

“Shitty news followed by amazing news,” I told him with another sniffle.

“Shitty news followed by amazing news, exactly! Anyways, I think they wanted to tell you that 'cause—I dunno, somethin' about you and Ceecee and Clara getting a sneak peek into it.”

I gasped at that and threw my arms around him again.

“Nice fuckin' life as we've been saying as of late,” he said.

“Nice fuckin' life!” I followed up.

“Happy New Year, by the way,” he told me with that little lopsided grin crossing over his face. Sometimes I forget how cute Joey is, especially when he smiles: his brown eyes light up, his cheekbones fill out a little bit like little apples, and he gets this little shy boyish quality to him. And then there's that little hole in his teeth.

“By the way, you look really good,” I complimented him as I hung back a little bit.

“It's only been a couple of weeks, though,” he pointed out with a raise of the eyebrow.

“Well, your face looks a little fuller, though.”

“Thank my mom and her love of making sure I'm good and warm for that.” He ran his hand down his chest and his stomach. I giggled at him and then something caught my eye. I peered past him at Scott himself with those couple of guys I saw from earlier.

“What'cha lookin' at?” Joey turned and followed my gaze.

“Those guys over yonder.”

“Oh! A couple of our friends from Armored Saint—” He gestured over to the group of guys. “I guess Slayer's supposed to show up—uh—when we're down in San Fran. They really wanna meet you ladies, like Frankie shared a recording of your set from Rhode Island with them and they were like 'yeah!'” His voice trailed off as he turned his head towards the back door. I followed his gaze at the sight of Clara talking to Jason and Charlie about something.

I heard her mention the word “mom” to them, and I knew what she was talking about right then.

“Fuck,” Joey breathed out.

“Ceecee and Clara are my sisters now,” I told him. He directed his attention to me again, this time with a nibble on his bottom lip. Those brown eyes swallowed me whole like big black holes. He looked like he wanted to tell me something, but I didn't know what.

“Chris—come with me,” he beckoned me.


	49. The one where it's hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smut warning*

I remember Joey taking me to the next room over, the next one over from that doorstep. He asked me to close the door but I couldn't do it all the way.

Despite that little sliver of light there to my right, it was dark, but I could make out the shape of his face and the jet black ringlets around his head.

He was still so gentle, the way his hands held onto the small of my back, and the way his fingers caressed me down: I still can't hardly shake the feeling of his fingers on my ass or the backs of my thighs.

It was kind of awkward, to be honest, especially with the door ajar a bit to our side: James' deep voice floated into the room. The guys from Armored Saint were talking as well. They were so close to us.

But I could feel him; I could feel how firm and full he felt inside of his jeans. But I didn't really know what to do, though.

In hindsight, I feel like I was overthinking it. We had had our encounter in New Jersey with the blood running down the walls around us, but this time around it was all but pitch dark.

But once again, he was kind enough to lead the way with me.

I inched close to his flat chest and his soft stomach. I don't think I'll never understand how a guy so skinny can be like such a little teddy bear.

The soft aroma of his cologne crept over me. The skin on his neck was like butter.

He said something about it feeling wrong—I don't really remember. Something about it being so soon after a serious incident and under such a ghastly veil. I only recall feeling moist and feeling my nipples tightening underneath my bra. But he brought me here for a reason. And that was to get close to me again.

“Just—just kiss me—” I whispered into his lips. “I need you.”

He tasted like sugar and black coffee. I was diving head first into a cup of Italian espresso under an Iroquois sunrise.

A cup of Joe. A cup of Joey.

I ran my fingers through his ringlets and he ran his through my dyed streaks.

There was a voice in the back of my mind telling me James would be a bit more rough. If he and I were in that room ourselves, we would be vouching for something that's a bit harder.

But here: so gentle and so sweet. I knew he and I were going to have to fuck each other silly at some point. I don't know: my memory is a bit of a blur at the moment. His fingers caressed over my hips and my ass. I'm not heavy but I feel like he would have loved a little more softness in those hands.

And then he asked me to touch him below the belt. Below the belt and between his thighs.

And he asked me if I wanted him to stay quiet.

I think I said yes because when I unbuttoned his jeans and reached down with my right hand for a bit of touching, he made these little pleasured whimpers every time.

( _Charlotte's note: How is it that the quiet boys always have the filthiest minds_ )

I could feel him filling out and hardening. Every little whimper and moan from him was making me even wetter.

I pressed my left index finger to his lips.

“Don't you dare,” I whispered to him as I took my right hand out of his jeans. “Don't you dare, you bad, bad boy.”

He gasped and groaned, and then he giggled.

“You are so sassy,” I teased him.

“Put those fingers in my mouth and then we'll talk, sweet cheeks,” he teased me in a husky voice.

I licked my lips and slipped my left index and middle fingers into his lips. I remember feeling his teeth and the pad of his tongue. I rested my right hand on his stomach.

I remember he gagged a little bit as I stroked my fingers over the teeth at the back of his mouth. I took out my fingers and he coughed and sputtered a bit.

“Are you okay?” I asked him as I shook my hand about; I kept my other hand on his stomach.

“Yeah. Your hands taste—weirdly good, though, to be honest.” He paused.

“You said we'd talk?” I asked him.

“Yeah. You said I'm a bad boy.”

“You _are_ a bad boy.”

“Call me Chief,” he whispered.

“Chief?”  
“Yeah, 'cause I'm Indian, y'know? The real naughty boys get to be crowned Chief.”

“You wanna dominate me?” I asked him.

“Unless you wanna do it for me—” His whisper caressed over me like the tips of feathers from an Indian headdress. “—I'll be Chief from the bottom.”

I don't really recall much else, other than his remarking how soft and wet I was under his fingers. Another thing I remember is his begging me to punish him for being such a bad, bad sassy boy. I also recall him calling me “mommy” at one point.

But between the darkness, it's difficult to recall anything else, other than it was hot.


	50. The one with s'mores and bedside manor

_January 6, 1987_.

We arrived here in San Francisco about a couple of hours ago. Ceecee, Clara, and I are eating s'mores at the moment: all the scrumptious chocolate we could ever ask for atop molten marshmallows sandwiched between two graham crackers. Lars promised to join us a few minutes ago—I guess James and Joey were busy doing interviews with some people downstairs.

I can't stop thinking about the encounter I had with Joey the other day in Seattle. He was easily the best part of the gig there: I still can't hardly shake the taste of him off from my lips. There's something about the feeling of him so close to me, something that sends me flying.

I know the next round of tour dates across the Atlantic are going to be extra sexy between us: I'll get to wear something low cut for once. I won't have to worry about being slaughtered right before a crowd of people.

I even bought a couple of blouses on the drive down from Seattle, one of which fits me a little better and I know he's going to like it once he sees it. It's a white blouse that's nice and soft, and it hugs the curvature of my body. The neckline plunges a little bit.

Ceecee got a top for herself to share with Kirk, except hers is a bright hot pink and it's a bit more on the side of stretchy. We're gonna couple these with our mini skirts—we're gonna be the hottest folk punk duo that ever walked the walk out of the country.

You can look but you can't touch. We got these tops for our boys.

Or maybe I should share it with James? I don't know. I'll share it with the both of them.

I just like two guys. I like s'mores and I like two people with long beautiful hair and dicks.

I'm looking over at Clara right now and her fondling a piece of paper on her lap as she's drawing something.

She told us it's for one of the crew members as kind of an homage to the guy who died in New Jersey. She showed me a peek of it and it resembles to fire, all kinds of red and orange surrounding a guy's head. His hair is on fire. Or maybe it's blood? She won't tell us.

But I've eaten about five s'mores—I'll take one more courtesy of Ceecee and then I'll lay down.

I hear the boys next door—Ceecee just made a joke about going over there to raid their fridge for milk but Clara assured her right then and there that they didn't have any.

“And if they do, it's not going to be pure milk, either,” I added.

Joey's placid upstate accent caught my ear just now—so did James' big voluminous voice—

So the two of them waltzed in here because Joey smelled the marshmallows coupled with the chocolate as they came back upstairs. I made him one, and then Ceecee made him one, and then he made himself one. The same thing happened with James—both of them ate more than I did. The three of us just lay down on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling.

Ceecee told us she was going to visit Kirk to find out if he wanted one, too. Clara stayed there down on the floor with her drawing pad still cradled in her lap.

James and Joey both talked to me as we lay there on our backs—I was half tempted to reach over to rub Joey's stomach because he ate a lot of s'mores. I was half tempted to get down with the both of them.

I don't even remember half of the things we talked about, but that was on my mind the whole entire time.

Make no mistake—even as I'm writing in the wake of that, after they both returned to their room—I'm ready to go all the way with the both of them.

The both of them.


	51. The one with David Bowie and breakfast

_January 8, 1987_.

With each encounter I have with him on this little stint here in the Pacific Northwest, the more I am finding myself attracted to Joey's voice in particular.

I'll never forsake the flesh, for sure: but it's that upstate accent really winning me over in the past few days. It's so sexy.

( _Charlotte's note: fewer things in this world are as interesting as an attraction to a man's voice_ )

There's something quaint and rather endearing about the way he says something seemingly innocuous like, “how 'bout a little Starman before we mosey on over to the far side of the Atlantic?” while we're in the hotel room. The way he says “Starman” as “Stahman” and all of his humble little contractions, his “y'know”s, “nuttin'”s, “ya bastards”, and whatnot. It's a niche accent, something unique to a place like Seattle.

And then there's every time he raises those dark eyebrows at me whenever I speak up. The way his curls flutter and flit every which way when he even so much as moves his head around. I'm still keeping my promise, however. I'm going all the way with both him and James once we're over in Denmark.

Speaking of James, I had quite the interesting conversation with Lars just a little bit ago.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed and meandering around on my guitar—I wanted to uncover a little secret fill that Ceecee likes to throw out there once in a while. She picks upward for a brief moment before she changes chords and she does it so quickly that it makes me more than curious about it. Moreover, she won't tell me about how to do it, either.

A knock on the door caught my attention. I set down my guitar and strode on over to see what was the matter.

Lars stood there with a chocolate bar in one hand and a perplexed look upon his face.

“Oh, hi, Lars, what's up?” I greeted him.

“James wanted me to give you this,” he told me.

“This chocolate?”

“This and also a message of some sort.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. He nibbled his bottom lip and brought his face close to mine.

“So morbidly beautiful,” he breathed with a closing of his eyes.

“That's what he called me?” I asked him.

“Apparently so,” he replied as he reopened his eyes and raised his eyebrows at me.

“What could it mean?”

“No idea. But it's an interesting compliment to pay to a girl, if I am honest.”

I squinted my eyes at him. And he raised his one eyebrow higher at me.

“First of all, no,” he said. “And second of all, no.”

“I didn't say anything, though,” I pointed out.

“Alas, but your eyes said it, though,” he insisted.

“Said what?”

“You are—desiring something.”

I nibbled on my bottom lip as I gazed into those fresh green irises: like a breath of fresh air straight out of the heart of Scandinavia. I gestured for him to come closer to my face.

“Can you keep a secret?” I started in a low voice.

“I will take secrets to the grave if I have to,” he assured me.

“Promise?” I stuck out my pinky finger for him.

“Promise.” He linked his pinky up with mine.

“I want to go all the way with both Joey _and_ James,” I confessed in a near whisper.

“Joey _and_ James?” I nodded at him.

“Holy shit.” He then knitted his eyebrows together. “I really hope you don't mind me prying at all, but something tells me it is from—everything that is going on in your personal life at the moment that's driving you.”

I shifted my weight right there before him. I cradled the chocolate in my hands.

“The road can get quite lonely,” he added. “I would know, too. And—you know, I was there when the first corpse was found. And I know what—is going on there in Seattle, too. So—I understand totally. But may I ask, though—why do you want to keep it a secret?”

“Because—I got these two—really weird letters from the guy—the serial killer, the King of Hearts—”

“Yes.”

“—and he keeps telling me if I tell anyone about anything that's going on with him—because my mom's a reporter—he might kill the both of them.”

Lars raised his eyebrows at me in shock.

“Really,” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

“And so you're telling me because your mum's a reporter and—”

“I want to tell someone. And—I really like the both of them a lot.”

“Oh, I see now,” he declared with a nod of his head. “Does Cecilia, Ceecee, know at all?”

And I shook my head. He fetched up a sigh.

“Okay. It's between you and me.”

“And you take secrets to the grave.”

“I do. There are some things about James I have under wraps that make places like—the one place in Kentucky with the all the gold, what's it called?”

“Fort Knox?”

“Fort Knox, yes! I have some things about him under such wraps that make Fort Knox look flimsy. If I can protect things about him from the light of day, I can do the same for you. And we're going to Europe in a few days, too, so—you will be protected.”

“And that's a promise?”

“And that's a promise,” Lars assured me with a wink. “And by the way—when we get to Europe, I am going—” The little smile crossed his face such that his cheekbones filled out like little apples. “—to share with you, and Cecilia and Clara, and maybe Joey if he wants to join us, too, a European breakfast. You know how here in America you have the column telling you the nutritional value of things?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That—would go off the charts.”

“You wanna give the each of us a coronary is what you're saying,” I teased him, to which he shrugged.

“I dunno about that. I have eaten it a number of times and I came out fine myself. But it's belly warming and it doesn't get more European than it, either.”

“I think I'll have a little try,” I told him.

“Excellent!” And without another word, he blew me a kiss and stepped away from there. And so now my hope is that my secret really is safe with Lars.


	52. The one with the demo tapes and bones

_January 11, 1987_.

We arrived here in Denmark at sunrise, or so I think anyways. I had to check the time twice to ensure it was really the exact time the clock said.

The sun hasn't even risen over us so the whole entire sky is painted jet black and there's an eerie golden glow all about the horizon.

( _Charlotte's note: in the summer time, it's the exact opposite: the sun almost never sets!_ )

To think Cliff died just to the north of here. At one point, as we were nearing Scandinavia, Ceecee gazed out the plane window at the darkness over the north side of the horizon and I knew she was thinking of him. I thought of him that whole stint of the trip myself, and how that bus accident seems to pale in comparison to what's been happening with us this whole time.

Lars, being the gentleman he is, brought us to our room in the cute little hotel overlooking a rather colorful part of town. And by colorful, I mean these big bold bright colors making up the front faces of the whore houses, or “houses of ill repute” as Scott called them, making up the block around us.

If I'm honest, that side of life has always fascinated me. The thought of all of that skin, all of that sweat, and I'm sure that, since this is Denmark, it smells quite nice in there.

And then I told Lars about it and he was eager to take me once we touched down here in Copenhagen.

The women were so nice to me and were willing to put on a show for the both of us.

To think I could be as smooth and in touch with myself as these women. Although I will admit I did blush quite a bit at first.

The thought of being in a setting so risque and earthy puts me in a mood. Lars does have my secret safe with him, after all.

“By the way, excellent choice with that top,” he told me at one point, “I hear Joey's a boob man.”

“Put your arms behind your back to push them out,” one of the women advised me. “It will—bring them out quite nicely.”

And we are in a safe place, and thus once Ceecee, Clara, and I were settled into this rather nice, rather luxurious room after a show and breakfast, I changed out of my clothes, hopped in the shower, and put on my blouse. I knew I wasn't going to have a chance yet but I wanted to at the very least put it into Joey and James' minds.

I'm going all the way with two men at the same time here in Europe.

As I brushed my hair, I heard a knock on the door. I took one glimpse down at my breasts and my top's accentuation of them. I have what I have. I knew I might've had to practice on either Lars or Kirk with the top if I wanted to ensure it with myself.

I fetched up a sigh and headed over to the door, and flung it open to find Joey himself standing there in a button down shirt. He had the top two buttons undone which in turn revealed that sun kissed skin and those stray fledgling sprigs of nappy dark hair on his chest. He showed me a grin and he almost gasped at the sight of my blouse.

“Oh,” I greeted him, “oh, hi, handsome.”

“Handsome?” he echoed with bit of a chuckle.

“Yeah. You're handsome. Very handsome.”

I could see his chest heaving a bit.

“And you're looking—quite—lovely yourself? Um—uh—”

“What's up?” I asked him with a hand pressed to the side of the door to show off a bit more of my chest and my arm.

“…uh, I was wondering if you'd like to come check out something with me,” he confessed with his brown eyes all big and luminous, like big dark marbles.

“Sure. Is it private?”

“Uh, quite. Very much so. Come with me.”

He hooded his eyelids a bit before he led me out of the room and into the corridor. I never realized this blouse rides up my body when I walk fast: by the time we reached his hotel room, the hem lifted off of my waist so as to show off a bit of my belly. Joey smirked at me once he saw my skin.

“Is that top too small or are you just happy to see me?” he teased me. I tugged down my shirt and giggled at him as he led me into his small but cozy hotel room. His own room.

“Lars brought over this recorder so I can play it for you—” he began once I pushed the door closed part of the way. He showed me a tape recorder plus a little dark gray cassette tape.

“This is something I've wanted to share with you since we came close.” He slipped it into the slot and closed the door, and pressed play. Some loud ska music played first, to which he jumped back a bit and pressed the stop button, followed by the fast forward.

“What is that?” I asked him.

“The Police—Frankie and Charlie were trying to find a clean cassette and this was all Jonny Z could give us to record the rough demo on. Forgot I needed to skip a little bit to get to the juicy part.”

He pressed stop again and then play, and then it played out again. Joey shook his head and tried again.

“I don't care if he's saying 'do do do' or 'don't don't don't', it's still a stupid song,” he grumbled, which coaxed a laugh out of me.

“Okay, I think it's here.”

He pressed stop, and then play once more. And then I recognized that riff from _Spreading the Disease_. I gasped.

“Medusa!”

“Yeah, but check it out, though—”

His voice was delayed a bit, but I knew what this was from the first note that emerged from his mouth. So raw and sweet, like wild honey, and yet so shy and tender at the same time, like a young boy straight out of school. I clasped a hand to my chest.

“ _Joey_ ,” I breathed.

“It's my first demo,” he told me, “can you believe this was actually two years ago?”

“Oh, my God.” I listened on in stunned silence, that is until it reached the end of the tape and he had to rewind back to the Police again. “Your voice is so pure there. It's almost delicate.”

“As delicate as your lips?” he teased me. I hesitated for a moment as he showed me the tip of his tongue. Nothing could deny the butterflies in my stomach. He bowed his head towards me as if he was about to kiss me. I bowed my head to hide my eyes a bit and put my arms behind my back. Indeed, it pushed my chest out a bit more.

“Oh, man,” he breathed out. Even standing there, I could sense he was hardening up. There was a voice in the back of my mind telling me it was too soon, but I knew what I wanted. I wanted to feel intimate with Joey here in Copenhagen.

Before he moved in closer to my face for a brushing of my lips, the door swung open. We leapt back from each other to find Scott striding in there into the room with a paper bag in hand.

“Scott!” Joey declared as his face bloomed with a nice pinkish hue; I could feel my face growing warm as well. Nonplussed, Scott waltzed over to me and handed me a little box.

“What's this?” I asked him.

“Open it up.”

I took off the lid and revealed a bracelet with big fat black and white beads. It took me a second to realize the white beads were made of bone, while the black ones were onyx.

“Wow,” Joey remarked with a raise of his dark eyebrows.

“Oh, my God—thank you, Scott.”

“The bracelet is courtesy of Frankie, Charlie, and myself,” he explained. I lifted it out of the box to find a little silver quarter note charm dangling off of one side.

“Li'l good luck charm courtesy of gorgeous Joe here,” he continued. “Danny also found the clef charm there, too.” Indeed, I turned the bracelet over to find a silver treble clef dangling right next to the quarter note.

“Aw, thank you, guys—” I told them as I slid the bracelet over my hand and let it stick onto my wrist.

“It's for being so damn sweet to us,” Scott continued. “The five of us and Metallica each pitched in on bracelets for Ceecee and Clara, but don't tell 'em, though.”

“Yeah, we want it to be a surprise,” Joey joined in.

“Gladly!” I promised them.

“Anyways—let's get going,” Scott piped up again. “Kirk and Jason are taking us to sump'n Lars calls 'elevenses.'”

“If I didn't know better, though, I'd swear it's dinner time,” I confessed as we left the room.


	53. The one with the waitress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"I want to kill this waitress;  
>  I can't believe this violence in mind  
> and is her power all in her club sandwich."_  
> -"The Waitress", Tori Amos

_January 11, 1987_.

Another day deserving of a second separate entry.

I was nervous to sit there in between Joey and Scott, especially when the former kept looking over at my chest. He kept looking at me. Not necessarily trying to hit on me—Scott was hitting on me the whole entire time. Raising his eyebrows at me whenever he could and throwing subtle quips at me.

Not that I didn't like it: Scott was so sweet to me and he was willing to fetch our drinks for us there at the table. A few times, I peered across the aisle to Kirk and Lars with Ceecee and Clara. The two of them seemed to be taking that freak accident and their mother's passing rather well, especially since neither of us had much time to grieve her before we had to play at the Arena back home in Seattle. At least I hope they are: Kirk assured Ceecee if she and Clara needed anything or anyone to talk to, he and Jason would be more than open for the both of them. She teared up a bit when he said that.

Every so often, I would glance over at Joey there to my right and he would raise his gaze to the waitress who strode on over to us every so often to check on us. She was this short squat voluptuous woman with rich black hair much like him, except she had tied it back in a tight bun atop her head. She had these cute feathery bangs to bring attention to her brown eyes. She was like a shorter, thicker version of him, and I know he was interested in the fact she wore that top with a plunging neckline.

He'd show her a friendly little smile, especially when he eyed her thick waist and her round hips. She'd tease him back a bit and his cheekbones would round out like little apples: that little gap in his teeth would show itself to her. She even told us she was American, an expatriate here in Denmark hoping to make her way here on the other side of the Atlantic.

There was a part of me that wanted to protect him, to make this declaration that he belonged to me. I knew I couldn't, not with James sitting across the table from the both of us, I couldn't do that.

In fact, it was almost too much to bear. When we had a moment of silence over the table, I excused myself and headed into the ladies' water closet. I stood there at the sink with my hands on the sides of the basin and gazed into my reflection in the mirror before me.

I thought about the club Lars took me to that day.

“You have to got to touch yourself before hand,” the dancer had told me when he and I were in there. “Find your hot spots. Get yourself in the mood.”

I had only touched myself twice before. But if I was to win Joey back and away from that sultry waitress, I needed to up my game a bit.

I washed my hands and stripped off my jeans. Since there was only room for one person in there, I need only lock the door. I let my jeans fall down my legs and then I took off my panties. I opened my legs and reached down.

I thought about finding a sex toy while here in Denmark, but at the moment I only had my fingers. I was careful to touch that delicate skin: it made sense why they're often referred to as lips. Soft and silky, like a pair of lips just waiting to be kissed.

Maybe it was that, the prospect of being touched, the touching, and the thought of having Joey and James right there by my lips with me, that made my heart pound faster inside of my chest. I could feel my nipples tightening on the inside of my bra. I pinched my eyes shut as I nursed the feeling.

There was no running from it. No running from Joey's tongue. No running from James' fingers. No running from that strong sexy feeling.

I gasped when the sound of a knock on the door caught my attention.

I took my hand out and scrambled to yank up my panties and my jeans. I washed my hands real quick before I slipped out of there to give the young mom and her daughter the privacy they needed in that little room.

I came back to the table to find those three men looking at me funny.

“Is everything alright?” asked Scott.

“Yeah,” I assured him when I slid down in between him and Joey; my face felt so warm to the touch. I fanned myself with the napkin before me. Joey picked up his glass of hard lemonade and brought it to his lips, but he never took a sip.

He dropped his gaze to my chest again but then he stared up to my face again and raised an eyebrow at me. I peered across the table to James and the sly grin on his face at me.

“You mind sitting over here with me?” he offered me.

“Danny's sittin' though, isn't he?” Scott pointed out.

“He's takin' his sweet time, though,” James insisted. I peered over at Joey, who smirked at me from behind his glass of lemonade.

Danny did take his seat there at the table across from Joey, Scott, and me: he looked so small right next to James, almost like a little doll. At one point, I felt something creeping on my knee underneath the table. I peered down at the sight of Joey resting his hand on my knee.

It was weird: it was like he knew I had felt myself in the bathroom there. Indeed, he hardly had his eye on the waitress after that.

He still did, but he paid more attention to me, especially once our food arrived: she bowed down next to us and even showed both me and him her chest a bit. If I recall correctly, he took a glimpse and showed her a friendly smile, like he was thanking her for the food but that was about it.

I did it. It worked. If I could thank that prostitute, I would. I just don't know what happened to her or where she went, though.

( _Charlotte’s note: always, always, ALWAYS thank your local whores_.)


	54. The one that's had too much caffeine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a rather disturbing dream I had last night. It haunted me for most of the morning

_January 13, 1987_.

I woke up this morning to Ceecee twitching like crazy. It was about two o'clock in the morning; I sat up in the hotel bed to find their silhouettes dancing against the darkness. Like a couple of ghosts against the darkness.

She and Clara were both sleeping head to toe in the bed next to me, and I woke up to something that sounded like rustling noises.

“Ceecee—” Clara grunted. “Cees—Cecilia, what the fuck are you doing?”

“What's going on?” I asked them; I was about to reach to my right to turn on the light.

“Hopefully nothing—go back to sleep, Chris.”

And then Ceecee clambered out of bed as if her ass was on fire.

I rubbed my eyes and watched her run over to the desk for something. I switched on the light and the bright contrast from the pale yellow light forced me to snap my eyes shut. I shook my head and peered straight ahead to Ceecee delving through her purse for something.

“What's the problem?” I asked her in a broken voice.

She said something that sounded like “nooses.”

“Nooses?”

“Yeah, nooses,” she told me. “Nooses everywhere—”

“I thought that that's what you said,” said Clara; I glanced over at her and her closed eyes. One of the few times I was actually jealous of Clara and her blindness. I bent my knees and put my arms around them.

“Who hanged themselves?” I asked her.

“I—I don't know,” she sputtered as she opened a little notepad to a clean page. “I just remember seeing nooses—all of them headed for me. I thought I had a stroke.”

“A stroke?” Clara echoed.

“Yeah. Like Kirk yelled out 'STROKE!' really loud and it jarred me awake such that I legitimately thought I was having a stroke. That's why I was all twitchy, Clara.”

“You were trying to make sure you weren't in fact having a stroke!” she replied.

“Yeah, I was wiggling my fingers and toes and shifting my limbs about. I was also stretching my mouth about, you know, 'cause of the whole thing about one side of your body getting all paralyzed and everything. I think it was all the coffee I had had earlier that got to me, but—who knows, really.”

I knitted my eyebrows at her scribbling something down on the paper.

“What'cha writing down?” I asked her.

“It gave me an idea,” she replied, “and I'm also doing it to verify even more that I'm not in fact having a stroke.”

“What, you're trying your hand at some lyrics?” I teased her.

“Yeah—I hope they make sense, though.”

“It's early as hell,” Clara followed along. “I can feel it.”

“Yeah, it's about ten after two,” I told her. Ceecee's scribbling filled the silence in the room, and that was when I caught the sound of shuffling outside of the hotel room door. Clara did, too, because she frowned and turned her head slightly to the right.

“You guys hear that?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Hear what?” Ceecee asked in an absent tone of voice; she was more fixated on writing lyrics for us anyway.

There was a loud thwack on the other side of the wall. And that caused Ceecee to almost drop her notepad onto the floor.

“What the hell was that—” Charlie called out from the other side of the wall. Frankie and Scott both said something; I climbed out of bed and headed towards the door. I poked my head out to the hallway to find a massive butcher knife sticking out from the wall about a foot away from my head. It was as if someone had thrown it there to intentionally grab our attention.

The blade was shiny and spotless, like it had been wiped clean before hand. I don't know if it was the fact Ceecee talked about experiencing a stroke in her sleep or not, but I had a bad feeling about this. I turned my head to find Charlie poking his head out of the room next door.

“Chris, have you seen Joey?” he asked me, and I shook my head.

The door across the hall from us opened and Kirk surfaced from the darkness there.

“Kirk, have you seen Joey?” Scott called out from behind Charlie.

“I haven't, no,” Kirk confessed. “I was just gonna ask you guys if you saw James anywhere.”

His voice trailed off and the three of us peered over at the knife jutting out of the wall. I stepped out of the room for a better look at it. The blade jutted out from an angle: the black handle faced away from me. I peered down the hallway to the very end.

Nobody there, but the feeling still nagged at me.

I swallowed and ambled down the carpet towards the very end.

“Be careful, Chris,” Charlie called after me. I peered over my shoulder at him and Scott with their heads poked out of the door next to our room. Kirk and Jason were doing the same but from across the hall. I swallowed again and continued onward. The carpet was cold underneath my sock feet: I picked the wrong night to wear all white pajamas because I knew what that knife meant.

I reached the end and stood next to the corner. Careful not to make any noise, I leaned to my right and peeked around the corner.

Pressed against the wall, shrouded in shadow, stood a small spindly black table with two chairs.

I knew who he was almost immediately.

He looked like a regular man with his buzz cut and bright but blood shot eyes, his ghostly pale skin, and his stout body. I knew he was tall in comparison to me as his knees pressed against the under side of the table. He had his right hand rested upon the surface of the table and he cradled something in the other hand. He looked like a regular man but I knew who he was upon sight of the blood stains on the legs of his trousers.

He turned his attention to me, that thousand yard stare slicing right through me like the very knife he had chucked at the wall.

“Hello, Christina,” he greeted me in a soft voice, so soft and gruff that I swore he whispered his words at me.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I've been expecting to find you here, clear across the Atlantic,” the King of Hearts told me as he reached for the glass before him with his right hand. Some kind of dark liquid in there. It could've been anything from stout to human blood for all I knew.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated as I stepped out from around the corner; Charlie, Scott, Kirk, and Jason were totally silent behind me. Either they went back into the rooms or they were watching in stunned silence.

“To make a point,” he continued after he took a sip from the glass: part of the liquid in there still stuck onto the inside of the glass. It looked like blood.

“A point about what?”

“My point about my desire to create with the flesh and blood of humanity. We are our own palettes after all.”

The nagging sensation morphed into a pit in my stomach. I didn't want to know, but I and the four men behind me all needed to know—

“What have you done,” I began, “with Joey and James?”

He took another sip and that was when I smelled the iron.

“Joseph and James—are fine,” he replied. “But you will not be fine yourself, darling Christina.”

“What're you saying?” I asked him in a soft voice.

“Too much caffeine,” he said as he set down his glass. He raised his other hand to show me what was there. The blood was fresh on his hand: I knew that olive skin, now washed out to a pale deathly white. His eyes were sunken in, but I knew that Roman nose anywhere. His coarse black curls dangled around his face like a series of lifeless ribbons. But it was the one on the right that did me in: that golden blond hair washed away into the darkness of death. The King of Hearts had plucked out his eyes: two large black holes gaped back at me in voided silence.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't.

“STROKE!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He let Joey and James' heads fall onto the floor as if they didn't mean anything to him.

They meant nothing to him. And that's why he killed them.

He had no agenda: he only cared about infecting us all with his drive. His drive to take us all down.

And now I was having a stroke.

I jarred myself awake. I shook my head about and peered about the room before me.

I was back home in Seattle.

And then I remembered what had happened: Ceecee told me they were postponing the tour about three weeks so she and Clara could properly grieve their mother. I had that nightmare perhaps from the jet lag. We had just returned home not even the day before and the three of us were exhausted from all of the flying—all any of us wanted to do was to lay down and sleep. Although I swore I had had a stroke. I shook my head again and moved my mouth around to ensure no paralysis. I wiggled all my fingers and all my toes. I shifted my weight in my bed.

I was fine, and yet it jarred me awake so much that I had to hesitate there with my mouth stretched in a phony smile to make it real.

I fetched up a sigh and turned my head to the right to the nightstand next to me. Two envelopes there underneath the lamp: Mom told me they were from Joey and James, like they both had written to me at some point prior to the tour, and prior to New Year's.

I needed a little something to ease my mind, especially after that horrific dream.

So, I needed to write that all down before I opened up their envelopes…


	55. The third letters from James and Joey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: gonna do something a little different here.  
> Italics for Joey; bold for James.

Chris—

 _It's three thirty in the morning as I'm writing this to you. I can't sleep—I kept waking up. And I know it's because I keep thinking about you_.

**It's about three o'clock in the morning as I'm writing this. I couldn't sleep because I had a bad stomach ache. And also because I keep thinking of you.**

_For a moment I forgot what day it was because… I'm sure you know how disorienting it is to wake up at such an ungodly hour. I mean, my head's spinning as I'm writing this. I feel dizzy.._.

**I think it's Christmas Eve: Lars' birthday is coming up here, I know that much.**

_I have to come clean with you about something since it's snowing outside right now and I feel like cuddling down in the bed with you. God, it's such a tickling feeling in my stomach at the moment._

**Did you know people reveal their true selves in three states: when they're about to die, when they're under the influence of something, and when it's the middle of the night? I'm not going to die, I'm sober, and thus that leaves only one behind.**

_Call me baby. Call me baby and I'll call you mama. I'll be your baby tonight._

**You know what I feel like doing at the moment? Just getting down with you right now. Who cares if it's early—I want to have a moment with you under the mistletoe and the Christmas tree.**

_I'm looking down at my thighs right now—there is nothing more I wish for at the moment for you to kiss them. Just get in between my thighs and kiss the insides. Make me sing. Make me sing like I do on stage. Please. Please, Chris_.

 **I feel like putting some leather on you: some leather ties around your wrists and your ankles so there's no escape from me. I want to touch your nipples while I've got you down on all fours**.

_Touch me. Touch me—touch me or I'm gonna have'ta do it myself. And you wouldn't want me to touch myself in front of you. Or maybe you do?_

**Gonna do it so silly**.

_You know I'm big, right? You've seen me in my tight—tight fucking jeans. I am Italian after all_.

 **Oh, baby. Give me some barbecued kitten**.

_I wish you could be here right now! I would hold you and keep you warm—Jesus fuck, it's cold. Or maybe you can keep me warm?_

**Nothing more I want right now than to get down with you and have some dinner with you**.

_I want you to cuddle with me. Cuddle me and kiss me. What am I doing_.

**Dinner and a show and then some breakfast!**

_Pfff, you wanna know something?_

( _Charlotte's note: okay, that's funny, he actually wrote “pfff”_ )

_I want you to go to bed tonight—dream of a boy. Dream of a skinny little boy. Put your arms around him. Your hands on his chest and his flat little belly. Make his skinny little body feel loved and make him feel beautiful. I want you to touch him. Touch him and love him and take a whiff of his curly hair, which smells like soap 'cause you know. But touch him and love him, though. Give him every inch of your love, Chris, babe_.

 **I hope we can have a good encounter like that when we see each other again in Europe. There's nothing more I want than that. I hope it's okay, though. I want to come closer to you. I want to get under your skin and inside of you. I like you. I've always wanted a rocker chick girlfriend**.


	56. The one with black leather and elegant stationery

_January 14, 1987_.

I spent most of the day today doing two things: the first thing was walking through the supermarket in search of something but I had no idea what; the second thing was wondering how I'm going to write back to those two men.

I put on this leather jacket that made me think of Scott and Frankie—Ceecee was telling me about a jacket that Jason had gotten for her just yesterday. He described it as a late Christmas gift fused with a gift of sympathy. Nice fitted slim black leather with a little belt to go along with it. She put it on to show off to me: Clara strode over to her to feel it for herself. I watched the tips of her fingers caress and fondle the leather of the right sleeve. The whole room smelled of brand new leather for about an hour afterwards.

Paired with her mini skirt and her Chucks, she actually resembled to a rocker chick. A rocker chick ready to go see Metallica with Anthrax and Armored Saint up at the Arena once again.

While I was out, I found one for myself and it was as if someone had made it just for me. There were three belts near the bottom hem and they fit around my waist almost perfect. Smooth fitted leather that could easily twin hers, except there was a fine lining of fake fur along the hems of the sleeves and up around the collar. The only problem was it cost a hundred bucks.

We made some money on the tour with the boys, but I had a visceral reaction to that.

However, I did find some red hair dye at one point: there was a mirror near my head and I noticed the hot pink streak in my hair was fading away with the incoming platinum blonde. I figured if the King of Hearts was after me I should change my look up a bit. My hair is blonde enough, thus it can hold a lot of colors.

Needless to say, after getting that plus some what I believed to be dark Prussian blue dye and doing the whole process plus a nice warm shower for myself, my hair is now fiery candy apple red on the right side and lavish neon blue on the left side.

When I shared it with Mom, she clutched at herself at first but then she realized the intent I had. If I have to keep dyeing my hair to protect myself from the King of Hearts so be it.

Another thing I got while I was out today was some stationery to write more letters to James and Joey.

For James, I found this off white paper with a bit of soft blue trimming on one side that resembles to cirrus clouds. I'm also going to use a nice fine tipped black pen for him.

Meanwhile, for Joey, I found this soft ivory white paper with red dots all along the sides. Fine tipped blue ink for him.

I'm going to make these as nice and neat as possible. It's for the both of them.


	57. The third letters to James and Joey

James—

every so often, I think about that recent letter you sent me. I want to do something special for you for now onward. I want to do something to perhaps pleasure you in some way, and it starts with the look of things.

It's funny you said people reveal their truest selves in the middle of the night. It's middle of the night right now.

This paper is precious and I colored my hair differently yesterday. While I was out today, I slipped into a photo booth to take a picture of the red and blue hemispheres of my hair now. I also have a new leather jacket. Let's do it with lace and leather. All the aromas of leather and sex in the air.

I want you to know that I am in fact interested in having dinner with you. I want to go all the way with you. We need to get alone with each other when we see each other again.

Kisses, and thinking about your cock,

Christina

Joey—

you sweet, sweet man. You are so cute and so gentle. If I could kiss you right now, I would.

I reread your letter and I couldn't help but giggle every so often.

I want to treat you so kindly the next time we see each other. I do want to call you baby because you're so cute and sweet. You deserve all the love in the world. All the love in your stomach and your black curls. You're such a sensual, earthy man; raw like the voice on that tape recorder back in Denmark. Raw like wild honey.

I know you want it, baby. I'm gonna go slowly with you—slowly, softly, sweetly, and gently. Soft, sweet, and gentle like you. Just run my fingers through those black curls and feel you up. We need to get alone with each other when we see each other again.

Kisses, and thinking about your tummy and your cock,

Christina


	58. The one that needs some coaxing

_January 15, 1987_.

If I'm honest, I almost refrained from sending out those letters. It's not just from the fact I'm going really far with these two men, but I'm going to be seeing them again pretty soon here. In a week or so to be specific.

I also need some coaxing from Clara of all people to step out of the house to send them off. She told me it almost made no sense for me to go to all that trouble only to have to back out and sweep the whole thing under the rug.

“I mean, you got that nice stationery just for them,” she pointed out. “It's like dressing up real nice and then chickening it out with some kind of excuse that you're only doing it for yourself. I mean—” She shifted her weight there on the couch and wriggled her fingers on the head of her cane. “—you like them, don't you?”

“I do,” I assured her.

“Then send it to them. Make those two guys feel sexy the way they make you feel sexy.”

Even with her eyes closed, I could feel her staring right through me. She did make that drawing for Joey's birthday after all and it only made sense for me to pay it forward for James as well.

Much to our surprise, the murders have all but gone away from Seattle. It's as if after Ceecee and Clara lost their mother, the King of Hearts had a moment of empathy. But I don't know if that's reaching or not. The guy is after me and Ceecee in particular. But Mom strolled up to me this morning to tell me that.

“It's so bizarre,” she confessed as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “For a few days, we all thought the streets of Seattle would be flooding with the blood of women. But now—nothing. I wish we could explain it…”

“Surely you had to have found a break in the case at some point,” I pointed out to her.

“Well, one faction of the case is that yes, this killer is in fact human. It's just—from the first two autopsy reports, it's concluded that the way he takes out the heart from the bodies is so meticulous. We're thinking it's someone with steady hands, like the hands of a mortician or—even better, an engineer. Someone who deals with such delicate work that their hands are stone cold even in darkness. We figure that if he's a mortician, he would know how to remove the heart without making a hole in the chest first. He would reach under the rib cage and take it out that way. In fact, the two marks—the spade and the diamond—are done with steady hands. Someone who does meticulous work like soldering or painting. It would also explain why the strangulation marks on the victims show no sign of struggle, either.”

The mention of steady hands makes me think of the caffeine dream. That dream still haunts me because I thought for sure that was in fact him. He sat there with such a cold callous look in his eye as he held Joey and James' heads in one hand. I could feel the blood running cold, the blood running down the walls like they were in Jersey.

In fact that would explain why he seemed to be on top of us when we were back East.

Speaking of back East, after I returned from the post office, I caught the phone ringing, and it was Charlie. He called to check on Clara in particular, but he also asked me if we were excited to go out on the road again.

“Well, of course!” I told him with a bit of a chuckle.

“Also, if anyone asks, I hid Joey's demo tape behind a radar detector in our van,” he quipped at me.

“Okay. May I ask why?”

“Apparently, we pissed off some Police fans with that thing. Y'know, 'cause he recorded over it.”

“Does that thing even work?” I asked him.

“Nah. Hence, the hiding. But anyway, how's my darling Clara doing?”

“She seems to be holding up well,” I assured him; and when I said that, I peered over to the other side of the room, where Clara herself was taking a nap on the couch. A few locks of hair lay across her forehead as though they were insects creeping over her face.

“And now for the million dollar question—how're you holding up?”

“Eh—I mean, they're my friends. They're my best friends, like sisters to me.”

“It's tough, though.”

“Yeah, it really is. I mean, my parents are divorced, and they divorced when I was real young. I know what it's like to come from a broken family.”

“Nothing of that magnitude, though,” he pointed out.

“Not at all. The good news is the murders have stopped almost like clockwork.”

“That's freaky, though.”

“Yeah, it's almost like—the King of Hearts had a moment of humanity or something after their mom fell down the well. But who knows. Who really knows what this guy is going to do.”

“Well, look at it like this, Chris. You're going to be heading out back this way soon enough. He probably knows you're going to escape again, and so he's backing off again. I dunno if that's reaching or not, though. Also, keep your eyes peeled in the next day or so—Frankie's sending you ladies something.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He didn't tell me, though. I guess it's supposed to be surprise for all of us.”

It was quite the treat to hear Charlie's voice over the phone right then, especially when I looked on at Clara sleeping on the couch. But then again, I had no idea what to make out of any of this. They lost their mother and the serial killer after me maybe say that.

But it's all so confusing. Next week cannot get here any sooner, if I'm honest.


	59. The one with charm and a girl riot

_January 20, 1987_.

I feel the three of us drifting apart. Even with Ceecee and Clara living with my mom and me, I can feel it. They're not happy there in Seattle, and who can blame them? Their mother fell down a well over in Ellensburg and yet I haven't really done much of anything.

There hasn't been much for me to do to help them. I've had my plate chock full of things to do, between the dabbles in school and potentially Black Moon sealing a record deal with Metallica's label Electra.

Ceecee did tell me that she was in fact looking forward to seeing Kirk and Jason again. Her face lit up upon the mention of Kirk in particular.

I never realized how charming he is until he called the night before us leaving for back East and Europe again. Called to tell us that the four of them in particular are thinking of the three of us.

“Aw, that's so kind of you,” I told him.

“I've been meaning to call—I just never really got around to doing it,” he confessed upon clearing his throat. “Y'know, with touring and promoting and everything.”

“Of course, of course—” He and Ceecee talked for a little bit, and at one point, I noticed the tears in her eyes.

Clara has been sleeping so much more in the past few days alone than in the whole time I have known her. She just lays on the couch with her back to us most of the time: I have lost count how many times I or Mom pick up her cane from the floor and lean it against the arm of the couch when she knocks it over.

I thought of this last night, even with it being such a fleeting thought, but I thought it anyway. I thought of firing her as our manager. I have been doing most of the dirty work since New Year's, but then again, if I fire her, it means I have to declare myself as manager. I also don't know how she would take it, either.

We arrived in New York City just this morning and we were greeted by the five boys themselves.

“Gonna be another girl riot in Europe!” Scott declared with his big beaming smile.

It was good to feel Joey against my body again, with his slender sinewy arms around me and my head pressed against his chest—his body is still very soft and silky to the touch; and it was good to feel James again, with his toned arms holding me as though he was hugging a teddy bear. I remembered what the three of us had said to each other and I wondered when and how we were in fact going to get together during this tour.

Perhaps I'll have an encounter with Joey first and then James. Or James first and then Joey: save the skinny boy for last.

But how it's going to happen is beyond me. Even boarding the plane left me without the chance to bring it up to either of them. Joey did throw me a sly little smile from across the aisle at one point. James also touched my shoulder when we were walking down the aisle of the plane towards our seats. But they both fell asleep so I wasn't able to tell them, especially when I drifted off to sleep myself.

I woke up about five minutes before we landed in London, and I woke up right next to Ceecee, who had lay her head against the piece of wall next to the window. I shook her awake and she gazed on at me with blurry eyes and a smile twisted upon her face.

I thought for sure that was the moment our friendship had been rekindled, but she never made any mention of it.

So much for the girl riot, Scott.

I thought of rekindling things myself with her over dinner but she seemed more interested in speaking with Kirk. Joey and Scott were also talking about something, and James and Lars were talking about something. I finally tapped on Joey's shoulder when he got a moment and he raised his eyebrows at me.

“What's up, Chris babe?” he greeted me. How I missed his upstate accent. I was about to ask him if we could have a moment alone together after dinner but then Danny asked him a question. He then returned to me with a wistful look on his face.

“Hang on—I've gotta take this, okay?” he told me. “I'll come back to you, alright?”

“Yeah—”

The good thing is he kissed me on the side of the neck after he said that.

But that was the only good thing to come out of an otherwise depressing and dismal evening. I went to bed early, and now here I am laying in bed wondering where the hell everything has gone wrong in the past several days alone.

I'm just laying here in bed on my back and thinking of going to sleep. I had another fleeting thought just now, one that tells me I should just give myself up to the King of Hearts.

I should. I'm losing my friends and my boys. I should just fall asleep and let that psycho suffocate me and remove my heart…

And it took me like twenty minutes to realize Clara isn't in the bed next to me, and she usually gets back to the room before lights out.


	60. The one that's in big trouble

_January 29, 1987_.

( _Charlotte's note: whoa, what happened?_ )

There is in fact a hell.

We spent the past several days looking around for Clara—she had gone missing for a full week and no one knew where she could have gone to.

Poor Ceecee could hardly keep herself together when we called the police, who were less than helpful, I should add. Just a week ago, I thought the two of us were drifting apart and I felt awful for even so much considering as firing Clara as our manager and presuming those duties onto myself.

I held her close to me and I assured her that we would find her, even if it took us years. But she couldn't help but feel afraid to lose her. She already lost her mom—to think she could lose her sister so soon thereafter.

Frankie and Charlie sat with her every day with her as well: the latter even expressed a wish to say good bye to Clara even though he didn't want to think that.

We knew she was out there somewhere—at least that was what Joey told me.

“Upstate isn't that big,” he assured me as he put his arm around me. “It really—really isn't.” All I could do was take his word for it as he nestled closer to me

I couldn't help but feel as though we were in big trouble from here on out—the King of Hearts didn't want Black Moon to leave Seattle. He wants my blood. He wants Ceecee's blood.

And he'll stop at nothing to get it, even if it means severe collateral damage in the form of taking Ceecee's family from her. For all I know, he could be after my parents as well.

Every day this past week, we never left the Northeast. We never left Montana Studio there in Manhattan. We only left for food and to run upstairs to shower off, but I don't think either of us felt up for showering.

We just wanted Clara back. We just wanted her back so we could say good bye to her.

Everything was kind of a blur—all I remember was realizing her bed lay empty and then running out to pound on Kirk's door. My memory blurs into itself with anything following that. I do however, recall Lars and Kirk heading out to upstate for something. For what is beyond me.

And specifically Lars and Kirk found Clara laying in a ditch on the side of the road near Monticello.

It looked as though she had been there a couple of days. Her hair was a disheveled filthy mess: she had a gash on her temple and some dried blood on her arm. Kirk thought she was gone but her closed eyes tricked him for a second. They took her to the hospital and it turned out that the King of Hearts had taken her and…

( _Charlotte's note: and?_ )

...beat her and left her there to die.

He threatened to torture her, remove things from her body, if he didn't get to see me in particular. She got to hit him over the head with her cane and ran out of where he kept her, but he overwhelmed her. He beat the shit out of her. He beat the shit out of her because he wants me.

I don't even know what to do now.

So, allow me to reiterate. There is a hell. There is in fact a hell and I feel like I should be taken there.


	61. The one with another confession

( _Charlotte's note: oh, my. What have we here? Lined paper? Rushed writing? Surely, this has to be Frank again._ )

Chris—

I'm fearing for our lives now. After what happened to Clara, there's no risking anything anymore. None of us can risk drifting apart or anything of that manner. We have to stay together. All of us. All together. I hope we all can go to Europe again because I know you and I both love it.

In fact, you want to know something?

If I could make you live with me now, I would. There's only room for myself at my place.

There have been several girls who have been vouching for my attention over the Christmas break and if I'm honest, I've been thinking about something. I have to tell you this otherwise it's going to drive me utterly—utterly bat shit insane. I have to tell you through writing because I'm worried something might happen to either of us. Either of us could wake up dead or murdered. I got a call from Dave—Dave Mustaine, remember the redheaded California guy in Providence I think it was? I got a call from him asking if we were all okay here.

I guess he just learned of the accident, like just the other day he heard about it. He was kind of pissed, hence why he called me before Lars and James.

He called me Scrappy in the process, too, which was... funny. And odd. And weirdly appropriate?

Anyways, I'm rambling here. I ramble when I'm on edge and I get scared.

( _Charlotte's note: oh, poor man_.)

I think we might have a connection between us. I really do. I really, sincerely feel it between us.

I like you. You like me. I think we could figure something between us before... you know. Before one of us “wakes up dead” if you will.

I want to know if you'd like to do something at some point. You know, during this stint of the tour. There's a week break following the Valentine's Day show and I was wondering if you want to cut the crap with me and go out with me. I want to take you out.

I want to show you Syracuse and Buffalo, my neck of the woods, all of it. I know neither of us have much time and I know there's not much time with James, either.

But it's either him or me. Do or die time now, baby doll.

I want to take you out—I think he does, too. It wouldn't surprise me. But I want to do that for you.

Just take you by the hand and lead you through the back woods to the north of us.

You can always say no to me, but I'm a man looking at the end of the world. Looking down the blade of a knife, the virus of fear, and now the far end of a blunt object from a total psycho. Understand that it's something I want to do and I hate to sound desperate but time is officially of the essence now. Time is of the essence especially when our necks and hearts are on the line.

I don't want to die, and I don't want you to die. I don't want either of us to die before our hearts are broken by the sharp edge of a knife.

All of my love,

Joey


	62. The one with a loverman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “She offers to take me upstairs for coffee at twelve o'clock at night. And I said 'no, it keeps me awake.' Coffee at twelve o'clock night is not coffee. Coffee is sex.” -George Costanza
> 
> (also I couldn't help but think of Happy Gilmore while writing this one)

_February 2, 1987_.

I decided to write this up in the morning after, after Joey and I had our little date in the back woods of upstate New York. I can still taste the clams on my lips—but then again, we had dinner kind of late.

We had gone through here while on tour before, but there was something else about this little day trip there. Maybe it was because it was just me and him and we had very little contact with anyone else back in New York City or back in Seattle for that matter. Or maybe it was because he took me down a rather isolated stretch of road to take us back to his home town of Oswego, which he told me stood right on the shores of Lake Ontario. I mean, it was so nice to get away from the City for a couple of days during our break, to get away from everything. Really, to get away from everything.

I mean no offense to Ceecee and Clara, but I needed to be away from them before I can even so much as think of try and reconcile things with them. I was eager to leave that city air in favor for the little city on the lake.

“Right on the lake,” he assured me. “Now you know why my skin's so nice—same reason why yours is so nice from living in Seattle.”

“And why your hair is so luxurious,” I teased him. “It's all that lake effect comin' for you.”

“Exactly!”

It took us four hours to go from the City to Oswego—or 'Swaygo as he called it. He drove me through Syracuse—well, I should say he drove me around Syracuse. Its freeways circumnavigate the heart of the city and the city itself is built around it. “The donut hole” as we both called it.

He showed me the way to his place, past the hockey rink he played at for years before he ultimately chose music instead, past a little Denny's restaurant which he and his old friends used to have late dinner at. Apparently—I don't know if this is true or not but according to him, we can go into that Denny's at any time, day or night, and eat a shitload of pancakes because he's like a hero around here.

“One time I went in there for breakfast and the lady in there told me I could eat as many pancakes as I want at no charge.”

“And did you?”

“Chris, I was feelin' stuffed for like two days straight. My stomach was all taut and swollen but it was worth it. I had nothing else to eat at my place and I was like a day away from getting paid so it was like 'well, I can either push myself and gobble up a dozen pancakes or I can get my usual three and scrounge around to get groceries.' Just so long as you're with me, you can get that.”

“I can't get it solo?”

“Nah. It's too easy to take advantage of that otherwise.”

( _Charlotte's note: I just feel sick at the thought of eating a dozen pancakes, good Lord._ )

The lake itself is even bigger and darker down here by the shores than on the road up to Canada: the waters stretch for as far as the eye can see into the wilderness and they're as cold and black as a winter's night up here.

He led me to his room, his bachelor pad, and told me to make myself at home before we went out to dinner. When he came out of his bedroom, he had changed his clothes and ran a hairbrush through his black curls and sprayed a little cologne on the side of his neck. And yes, he took me out to dinner at kind of a late hour given we left the City kind of late: he took me to this little seafood place down by the wharf. He nestled down next to me at the counter as if he was too cold—it was rather cold in there, but I put my arm around him and held him close to me. I set my hand on the side of his head and took in his essence before we had our clam chowder.

Afterwards, he took me to that hockey rink again: this vast stretch of pearly white ice freshly cleaned and scraped from the Zamboni, and an equally vast stretch of wrought iron over our heads.

“I wish I brought my old skates with me,” he confessed as we stood there at the end of the rink. I tried to picture him as a teenage boy flying around the ice on his skates, on those spindly legs of his, and wrapped up in pads and his jersey, but I couldn't do it without laughing.

“What's so funny?” he teased me.

“Nothin'.”

“Nothin', eh?” He showed me a mischievous grin. He then vowed to take me back here with his skates and his eyes open to search for a pair for me.

When we climbed back into his car, he then turned to me with a slight smirk on his handsome face and his brown eyes hooded a bit.

“You wanna grab some coffee?” he asked me.

“Coffee? At eleven o'clock at night?”

“Yeah. You know. A li'l cup of Joey.” He raised his eyebrows at me and I couldn't help but wonder about that.

I woke up this morning on his waist, all slim and warm and surprisingly soft to the touch. I wondered if we did it—we both had a little too much to drink the night before. We both were tipsy… he had a beer and I had a hard lemonade… but I do recall him asking me to choke him with something.

“Hey—Chris—you see that—over there? Put it around my neck an' gimme a good chokin'. I've been a bad boy, mamacita—thinkin' with my dick—”

I think it was adorable he called me mamacita but, that's about as far as my memory goes. His black curls span over his face and his neck like a blanket, and his bare chest is rising and falling in steady pace with his breathing.

I'm sitting here with one hand on his beautiful belly—I think at some point I left a hickey right next to his belly button.

In fact, I can even taste him on my lips in junction with the clam chowder.

So that's what he meant by that.


	63. The one with fading moons and crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Don’t say anything 'cause anything could burn the flame out cold.  
>  The screaming voices in your head, just silent sounds ignored.  
> And I’m telling you that this will be the last time!"_  
> -"The Cleansing", Butcher Babies

( _Charlotte's note: several blank pages… what on earth happened?_ )

I don't know what happened. Everything was going excellent and amazing there in upstate New York with Joey. We told Ceecee and Scott that we were going to be back soon enough, just in time for a little something that Joey promised me when he woke up that morning. He told me it had to do with Anthrax's new album.

He offered to take me out to breakfast, to the Denny's for a big fat stack of pancakes for me to watch him fill his tummy nice and full and then—it was like I walked out of the apartment in the rain and he told me to hold tight for a second. He told me he had something for me and his face was all round and rosy and sweet when he said it.

I posted up there outside the front door in anticipation. I huddled down in my jacket and awaited his warmth and his softness.

And then—

Nothing.

I don't even know what day it is.

All I remember was waking up in the hospital in New York City. Ceecee came up to me with my journal in hand and she told me I needed to write something, and she added the caveat that no one needs to know what I'm writing for that matter. She told me that Black Moon has been put on hiatus after what happened to me. The good news was we made enough money to pay our way through school and whatever else we wished for once I'm released from here.

I do have some memories of what happened to me. But I'm really going by the testimonial of Ceecee herself as well as—Clara. I guess she was the one who found me.

She found me laying in the same ditch where she had been left before. The exact same ditch.

Clara and Joey and James found me. They all found me together.

I woke up and the three of them were seated at my side: I woke up to Joey's brown eyes, and James' concerned face, and Clara looking forlorn and totally lost. I woke up to the taste of blood on my lips. I tasted blood and yet there was nothing there.

My head ached like crazy when I rose my head up from the pillow to greet them.

My stomach ached—and still does. It took me a moment to realize I hadn't eaten anything in days—maybe weeks. James told me I looked gaunt.

I could feel the fear in his voice. I could see it in Joey's eyes, complete with tears brimming them.

I could sense it when Clara told me what the medical report said about… about what happened to my body.

I'm going to talk about it. I rose from the ashes and faced my murderer head on before he could take Joey or James for himself. Before he could snatch their heads.

I rose from the ashes even with God herself abandoning me and leaving me on the cold earth far from home. I rose from the ashes to make my own grave in her wake before my heart was stolen from me. It's heavy and it almost consumed me to the point of taking me straight to the horrific depths of hell.

I'm going to talk about the king of my heart.

I'm going to talk about the day I died.


	64. The one with the weird map

According to Clara, the very second he saw that I went missing, Joey immediately ran to the phone and called the police, and then he called Ceecee and Clara. According to the former, he was just hysterical, like he had totally lost it.

“Joey—please—please—slow down. Slow down!” was what Ceecee told him.

“She—She just fucking disappeared!” Joey declared. He spent about an hour in his apartment on the floor of the kitchen with his face buried in his hands. He thought I was gone forever. It was hearing about that that I knew he wanted me than more than just a friend.

In fact, I remember the last thing he did for me before I went missing was he imitated something I had said as I stepped out of the apartment. I don't remember what I said exactly, but I asked him if I could “have a listen”. It was Anthrax's new album now that I recall correctly—my memory's coming back onto track now.

That was what I asked him about: he told me about their new album and I asked him if I could have a listen once they had it recorded, and he said “of course you can have a listen.”

Clara told me that's a sign that he likes me, likes me likes me. And when she said that I just went, “...oh.”

Upstate seems so straight forward and accessible on a map, even from an airplane, but it's a mess. It's a spooky lush mess, much like Joey's hair. Everything is so close and yet so far away from each other.

Even though we had been through upstate New York on the tour bus and in Nuclear Assault's van, Ceecee admitted to me that she didn't know the road up there very well. It was all an unknown to her. She admitted that she only knew about the road from New York City to Albany and that was about it: she couldn't even say where Syracuse is if someone asked her. Ceecee drove on the way up to Oswego and since Clara is totally blind, one could say it was a miracle they found their way up there.

A girl who was totally lost driving a car that, according to her wasn't running on all cylinders, with a copilot who was handicapped in one of her senses. Hearing Clara tell that to me blew my mind. I asked her why James or Kirk couldn't come along to help them, and she promised me that they wanted to but they both froze in place when they headed out to the car. Even though she's totally stone blind, she could sense the emptiness around them. That quiet emptiness they had felt that night in Sweden.

“For them, it felt like losing Cliff again,” she told me as she clutched onto the smooth handle of her cane.

She knew the general sense of direction of the lake from the feel of the moisture on her face and on the windows but that was about it. Ceecee followed the signs out of New York City, which was a nightmare in and of itself from a rouse of godawful traffic in the Bronx and from the subsequent darkness outside of town. It took them several minutes to realize they were headed to Albany and they had to take a couple of detours to find the road to Syracuse.

And then when they finally got to Syracuse, they missed the offramp headed out to Lake Ontario and Oswego. Twice.

“Sis, I'm blind and I can tell you you're going the wrong way,” Clara said at one point.

As a result, a usual four hour drive took them six hours. And then it took them another thirty minutes to find his apartment. So when they finally got there, they found Joey laying in the darkness, laying flat on his back, on his couch with his eyes closed and his legs stretched out before him. Ceecee asked him if he was alright and he winced at her words.

She turned the light on and sat down next to him to try and coax some words out of him.

“The cops were about as useful as tits on a mule,” he finally said in a broken voice. “Someone fucking took Chris when I wasn't looking. I turned away for like—a second.”

When Clara said that to me, the room fell so silent.

All it takes is one second. All it takes is one second to differentiate being here and then not being here…

and they didn’t even tell Mom yet.


	65. The one where mama bear's pissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *REALLY BIG TRIGGER WARNING!*

Lars was the one who had called Mom back home in Seattle—according to Ceecee, he did it because he kept thinking about Cliff. He wanted to do what he was unable to do for Cliff before the accident. They all thought back to the accident. The fear was palpable even as both the Blackwoods told me about it.

I knew the two of them thought back to the well in Ellensburg, too. We couldn't afford to slip away from each other. It had to take two people to die violent deaths in order for us to realize that. I couldn't help but sit there in my hospital bed with my journal right next to my hip for a moment. My head and my whole body ached.

To think we all had been drifting apart prior to then. To think we all could have lost each other without biding our farewells to each other. I wondered where I could have gone from upstate New York.

I rubbed my forehead and Clara told me I had hit my head at some point while missing.

“Olivia is out there somewhere right now,” she told me. “She's quite angry, too—even I can tell from the tone of her voice.” She shifted her weight there in the chair underneath her and then she picked up her cane. Something itched on my chest: I took a look down at myself and something red on my skin, right underneath the fabric of my hospital gown. I lifted the fabric and peered down at my chest.

On top of my left breast was a series of subcutaneous slits, and it took me a second to realize it took the shape of a heart. It was about the size of a golfball.

The King of Hearts had left his mark on me. He didn't remove my heart but he had given me one.

I shifted my weight there in the bed and I wondered what else he had done to me.

“One of the doctors said you had a series of bruises on the inside of your thighs,” she continued. I wanted to peel back the gauze on my wrists for a look at what else he had given me.

Joey ducked into the room right then with a flustered look upon his face.

“Joey?” Clara asked aloud.

“Yeah,” he replied with a smirk upon his face.

“I recognize your cologne.”

He strolled on over to my side and took his seat in between me and Clara.

“James and I were just speakin' to yo' mama,” he told me.

“And?” I asked him.

“Liv's pretty pissed if I'm honest.”

“Well, then again, who can blame her?” Clara wondered aloud.

“Right? But she just demanded an answer from me in particular.”

“Why?” I asked him, a little wounded.

“'Cause I was the last person you spoke to before you went missing. I couldn't say anything, though, 'cause—you know, I didn't know what had happened to you.”

James entered the room right then with a flustered look upon his face. He nibbled on his bottom lip at the sight of me.

“What's wrong, James?” I asked him. He swallowed and sighed through his nose.

“The cops all say you were—um, raped. Beaten and raped.”

( _Charlotte's note: oh, my gracious God_.)

“Beaten and raped…” I muttered under my breath.

“According to Olivia, the King of Hearts wanted to bury you alive,” James followed up. “If you look under the gauze—there on your wrists—there are these weird wounds on your wrists. Like he wanted to make it look as though you cut yourself and you were doing some kind of blood letting on yourself.”

I thought back to when I slit my wrists with a razor blade. I also thought about his letters to me—the way he stalked me, Ceecee, Clara, and the boys all over the Northeast. Surely there was no way he could know about that little tidbit. But I needed to take James' word for it, especially since I had very little memory of what had happened.

The King of Hearts wanted to make it look like I was harming myself, and when I thought about what he had said to me about using human blood as paint, I wondered what kind of change of heart he had experienced. That is if he had one.

I was special to him and he made his case clear to me that I held something special to him—why would he do that to me?

But then I could only assume he did it to teach me a lesson. I wasn't just another victim to him—he wanted me for himself, and he was willing to kill off the other artists and those around me so I was isolated.

He found me in upstate New York and swooped in once Joey's back was turned, albeit for a few seconds. He wanted to save me and then use me for whatever he wanted. He cut me and did other horrific things to me to prove something to me. He wanted my blood for himself, but my aching body tells me I tried to fight him.

That's it! That's it right there! I tried to fight him and he cut me to teach me a lesson. Like a sadistic dominant taken several steps further, the King of Hearts was incessant on his fascination about me.

Just sitting here in my hospital bed and writing this I managed to figure out his motives. But I can't say anything more than that because I don't remember what he had done to me.


	66. The one with a bloody sheet

Apparently I had been rolled up into a bed sheet after he had sliced me up. The cops found a white sheet covered in blood stains right outside of Monticello; Mom showed it to me so as to try and rack my memory a bit. The forensics people had wrapped it up in plastic to protect it from contamination.

I did recall seeing red against the darkness of my memory. A vast shade of fiery red. His face loomed over me. I writhed my body around on the hard floor.

My flesh was cut open. Mutilated. He cut me up and did horrible things to me. Horrible things and no one knew about it.

And yet I lived through it.

By some miracle, I survived it.

Was it the love of music? I do recall hearing “here comes your man—” in song form playing off on the other side of the room. Playing over and over, like he was inflicting some kind of torture onto me.

The love of life? I was on tour. I wanted to go on tour. I wanted to experience it all.

The love of… my best friends and my boys? But within my foggy memory, I do in fact recall something that kept me going.

Something inside of me kept me going. My heart kept pounding. I wanted to give my vagina and my body to both Joey and James. But there was no way I could give it to them right there on the side of the road, or in the bottom of a pool of my own blood.

I don't even know how long I had been laying there, that is until the nurse told me.

Eight hours straight. Laying there in my own blood on the dirty floor somewhere with a song crooning straight into my ear.

I rubbed my temple with the pads of my fingers. The nurses had washed my hair: it felt so clean even with a brush of my finger. I turned to my mom as she held on my other hand.

“Do you remember anything, baby?” she asked me.

“The King of Hearts was stalking me,” was all I could say.

( _Charlotte's note: thank you for finally admitting that_.)

She raised her eyebrows at me.

“Are you serious?”

To which I nodded.

“I have two letters he sent me. They're with my journal.”

“Ceecee brought your journal with her. I think evidence told her to leave it with them.”

“Which means I didn't lose it. Okay…” I leaned my head back against the headboard and sighed through my nose. I stared out the window at the sight of James, Lars, Joey, Scott, and Kirk congregated out there and conversing about something. Mom followed my gaze to see them for herself.

“Well,” she began, “if he's stalking you specifically and not you and the boys, then you have to change your appearance. And you must keep it that way until we find him.”

Which meant I was going to have to get rid of my blue and pink stripes, although I do believe they were already long gone at that point. And I do believe he truly is after Joey and James: I didn't have that dream for no reason, and neither of the two of them have mortified expressions on their faces for no reason.

“We've got the persistence of time on our side, though,” she assured me with a kiss on my sore forehead.


	67. The one with hair dye and a closet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That's not how you steal a closet. That's the worst closet stealing I've ever seen!"  
> -Jim Gaffigan

So after I got out of the hospital, the very first thing I did was I found myself a pair of cans of hair dye, one for myself and one for Ceecee.

It was hard. It was hard to look good, long, and hard at myself, at my hair, at those fading pink and blue streaks and realize they're not going to be pink and blue for very much longer. It was hard to realize my hair as a whole wasn't going to be blonde for very much longer.

Ceecee felt the same with her red hair.

We were going to be brunettes from here on out. It took the both of us a whole afternoon to carry out in the hotel room Mom had gotten after she came over from Seattle. But we both came out of it with dark hair. For some reason, my hair carried a bit of a rusty tone to it whereas she had a more of a straight up jet black color that the outside label promised.

Once my hair was dry, I showed it off to Joey and James both; shortly thereafter, she showed her hair to Kirk.

Joey showed me a warm little grin the very second I stepped into the room.

“You look so cute,” he told me. “Really, that dark tone is adorable on you. It fits your face so well.”

James on the other hand, took a moment to recognize me. But once he did, he showed me a smile himself, albeit one not as joyous as Joey. Kirk meanwhile swooned over Ceecee's jet black hair: she almost resembled Joey himself, albeit with straighter, flatter hair. I knew we would be Black Moon for real at that point, but I knew what was coming shortly thereafter.

Since I was left to die and yet I survived, we couldn't go on tour anymore.

We could still be good friends with all the boys we met, all without a shadow of a doubt. But we couldn't perform as Black Moon anymore, and if we do, it's going to be private. It's all going to be private. We can hope that there will be some kind of technology in the future so we can perform live without the boys having to congregate in Seattle for us.

Until then, we have to put our guitars in the closet back in Seattle.

The good news is school is starting again and we can do things better now with different colored hair. Granted, we're going to have to start from the beginning because of the time we missed.

And yet the King of Hearts is still out there somewhere. He's still out there, blades out and sharp as razors, thirsting for my blood. Thirsting for the blood of more girls and perhaps Joey and James themselves, unless he wanted to involve them to scare me. But he's still thirsty for blood. He's willing to make the moon go black at night, to dominate the heart of it all.


	68. The one with justice for the living

_March 22, 1987_.

Someone finally told me the date, ha!

( _Charlotte's note: I have to smile at that_ )

Apparently, Ceecee and I start school tomorrow, like first thing, too. So I'm going to keep this to the point. I already can't talk about it much because of legality surrounding criminal cases, but the King of Hearts has been identified as a man from here in Seattle, over on Bainbridge Island to be specific, who had been living over here on the mainland for a couple of years. He used to be a medical student and he thought for sure he would go places as a guitarist. But then he lost his scholarship, and then his guitar was stolen; and add to that, he lost his job; it was all just one thing right after the other and he found himself on a spiral.

He didn't take any of it very well.

Mom referred to him as a “dead man walking”, and as a result, he took his revenge, his anger, out on his girlfriend—I guess his girlfriend was pregnant, too.

She was strangled with the spare thick E string of his guitar and then he took out her heart because the forensics people figured he didn't see her as dead enough. He took her heart because she broke his. He profiled women like her, artistic women, women like me and Ceecee, simply because he was just out of his mind.

Something inside of him snapped. He was out for blood because he was afraid. He found me fascinating because he saw I was vulnerable.

That's all I'm going to say about it. I can't talk about it with anyone else.

I called Joey and James today to check on them—I caught James' machine. I guess Metallica is working on a new album themselves? I'm going by Kirk's words, though. And Lars called Ceecee last night and told her it's going to be a little more socially oriented than _Master of Puppets_ , and he told her the inspiration behind it was the murders.

“We also might be watching CNN more often, though,” he confessed to her.

“Any names?” she asked him.

“Something about justice. Like _justice for girls_ or something like that.”

And then earlier, I called Joey and needless to say, he was overjoyed to hear my voice.

“I wish you were here right now with us,” he said.

“I wish I was there, too! I wish we could tour again.” Joey sighed through his nose and into the mouth piece of the phone. He fell silent for a moment before he spoke again in a hushed voice. “I miss seeing your new dark locks.”

“I have to be in school, though,” I pointed out to him. “But I'll tell you what.”

“What's that?”

“Just keep this between us, though, okay?”

“Chris, I'll take secrets to the grave with me if I have to.”

I hesitated for a second when he said that.

( _Charlotte's note: wow_.)

“When I get a job, I'm going to put money away so I can boogie the hell out of Seattle, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. There's too much pain here. I have to get out of here. Mom says she'll help me—my dad, meanwhile, is trying to process what happened to me.”

“Where you wanna go, though?” he asked me.

“I kinda like New York, if I'm honest. I like upstate especially.”

“You just wanna see more of this area from a civilian's stand point,” he teased me.

“I'll admit it, though,” I scoffed. “I didn't get the chance to see more of the state. I want to see more of it.”

He fell silent again, and long enough for me to wonder what happened to his connection.

“Are you there?”

“Never left. I'm just—tryin' ta process that. You sure you wanna do this?” He asked that last part in such a tiny voice.

“Positive. Positively positive. I don't care if it takes me ten years to do it, but I'll do it. I'll do it for you, Joseph.”

“That's Chief to you,” he retorted.

“Chief? Oh, 'cause you're Indian.”

“Exactly! Hey, guess what?”

“What?”

“We dropped our album today.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, so mosey on over to the record store and pick up a copy of _Among the Living_ for you and the Blackwoods. How are they doin', by the way?”

“Better. They're communicating with me and Mom more so that has a lot to do with it.”

“Excellent! So, ten years or ten months?”

“We'll see, Chief,” I assured him; and I didn't dare tell him about James. “We shall see.”


	69. The last one

Charlotte reaches the next page of the diary only to find that it's empty. Christina had stopped filling it out, perhaps from attending school and then life taking hold shortly thereafter. The next pages thereafter are also empty, as blank as the face of death herself.

It is in fact apparent that she still hadn't made enough money to move back east to be closer to Joey, but Charlotte has no doubt that it has to be coming close.

She shuffles the letters, the letters from Joey and James and the copies from Christina herself, and slips them back into their hiding place. She stretches her arms and her back, and she realizes that it's lunchtime. There's a knock on the door which breaks her sense of concentration. She fixes the buttons on her shirt and smooths down her hair even though she's in an office building and not in a parlor.

“Charlotte? You still in there?” Christina calls through the door panel.

“Yes! Come on in.”

The door opens and the first thing Charlotte sees is Christina's head of dark hair, still rich and dark after over a decade. Her expression is serious but welcoming nonetheless.

“So?” she asks her.

“So what?”

“What'd you think?” Christina folds her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrows at her ghost writer. Charlotte stops and nibbles on her bottom lip as she searches for the right words.

“I am—beyond amazed that you survived that.”

“A lot of people are,” Christina says in a low voice. “In fact—I—still have a scar from where I lost all that blood. I still have a scar on my vagina, too, right where he—he, you know, assaulted me.”

“Are you—still determined to move back East?” Charlotte asks her in a reluctant tone of voice.

“I am,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye. “In fact, I was hoping if you'd like to come to lunch with me and we'll send off the money order together.”

“That—thing you were signing in the other room?”

“The same. Just little by little of my paycheck goes to an account and that's going to be my ticket out of here when the time is right. Whenever that time will be—is anyone's guess. But Joey wants me there with him. And he wants me there with him now because Anthrax showed him the door when I graduated from school.”

“Oh my God,” Charlotte gasps.

“Yeah. We spoke on the phone last night and he was just—he was just so lonely. I mean, he's touring. He's making music by himself as just Belladonna, but he told me it's not the same. He wants me there so bad, but I promised him: 'I'll be there before you know it. I promise.'”

“And what about James?”

Christina nibbles on her bottom lip.

“About five years ago, we tried things out, 'cause—I guess Lars and Kirk were going through this weird little druggie phase and he was feeling lonely. Didn't really work out, though. We still talk, though.”

“Oh, that's good.”

“About three years ago, he got married and then a year later, he had a kid. And then, I'm not even kidding, like a month after that, Lars became a daddy himself. But we're all friends, though. James introduced me to his daughter when she was learning to walk and he told me she looked like me when I was blonde.”

“What about Ceecee and Clara?”

“Ceecee and I are still attached at the hip. Clara—Clara's supposed to have an art exhibition—tomorrow, I think? I have to check my planner. My parents both want to go upstate, too. They both like Joey and his parents, so it makes perfect sense.”

“Do you still worry about the King of Hearts?” Charlotte asks in a soft voice to which she accompanies it with a lean forward and a folding of her hands on the desk.

“All the time. I can still hear him. I can still—feel him, I should say? I can still feel him against my body. I still have this feeling that he's going to come after me and kill me in the middle of the night. Because they never caught him. They just profiled the shit out of him and by some black magic, he disappeared into thin air. Like he was an alien or something. Ceecee and I still think he was an alien.”

Charlotte laughs, albeit a nervous laugh. Christina nods her head and straightens out her jacket.

“Anyways, let's go get something to eat. I'm hungry, and I bet you are, too.”

“How about that bar you and all of them had lunch together at? When you all first met each other?”

“That little place by the Coliseum?” Christina shows her a little smirk.

“Yeah. I want to see it.”

“They make great coffee!”

And without another word, Christina and Charlotte head out of the room, to which Charlotte locks the door behind her, and granted with a short stop at Christina's desk to pick up that money order. She never tells Charlotte how much it is, but she knows it's another increment closer to her happiness. It's another increment closer into the arms of the man she loves and another increment away from the callous killer that almost got her by the neck. Away from the agony.

And it took a scribe like Charlotte herself to uncover such a deep, mortifying secret.

A skeleton in the closet.

**Author's Note:**

> ***Update 2/25/20: I tried to expand the gifting list and I kept getting an error message; i.e., the bloody thing wouldn't let me (I'm crey). Eh, I still consider it a gift, though
> 
> First of all, thank you for reading and commenting and leaving kudos and sharing and whatnot. I can't say how much it means to me after having written stories for years but lacking the confidence to share them because I believed no one would want to read them. And now, since it's considered cool to read fic, let me say to anyone out there who's feeling the same as me: it's always good to look before you jump but... just remember to jump after you look.
> 
> And second, if I win the Wattys this year, I'm taking you all with me on that win because I didn't get here alone 💜
> 
> My main influences with writing this fic, by the way?  
> House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski  
> The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath  
> Creepypasta, namely Abandoned by Disney, The Rake, Russian Sleep Experiment, Squidward's Suicide, and Psychosis  
> Jennifer's Body  
> The Ring  
> Silence of the Lambs  
> The Hills Have Eyes (the original)  
> The Miniature Killer from CSI  
> Criminal Minds  
> There's a Light (a Pearl Jam fanfic)


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